


i don't want to set the world on fire

by NoStringsOnMe



Series: i don't want to set the world on fire [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) - Alternate 2012 Timeline, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Fix-It, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers-centric, Undercover As Hydra Agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 62,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24685738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe
Summary: "Tell me again what he said.""He said, ‘Bucky is alive.’""And then you froze?""And then I froze."|| The year is 2012. Aliens have fallen from the sky. And Steve Rogers has just found out from a dead-eyed impostor that Bucky Barnes is alive.i don’t want to set the world on fire- the 2012!timeline endgame fix-it nobody asked for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: i don't want to set the world on fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856677
Comments: 558
Kudos: 388
Collections: Stucky: Canon Divergence, StuckyAUs





	1. Impostor Syndrome

**Author's Note:**

> Updates coming every Friday!  
> Update: I meant to link this initially but the fic playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lTxq8nW3F4YwUgtvGrwBY?si=4nzzwqLkQVSlhu4ihtbaBA) if you fancy some tunes while reading.

"Tell me again what he said."

"He said, ‘Bucky is alive.’"

"And then you froze?"

"And then I froze."

Steve Rogers sat slumped in a faded pink armchair, its high back winging out behind his head. Elbow propped up on the armrest, he pinched the bridge of his nose and clamped his eyes shut; the memory of the previous week was seared onto the back of his eyelids. Across from him was Margaret Carter, ex-director and founder of SHIELD, but he just knew her as his friend, Peggy. 

The retirement home Peggy was holed up in was out in the country, around 40 minutes from D.C.. It sat up on a big hill overlooking a lake and was surrounded by trees. You’d never know it from looking out the window, but just beyond those trees was a busy little town that had a constant stream of people coming and going at all hours. 

"The impostor, Loki, whoever he was, said his name and suddenly I was a kid again," admitted Steve, shaking his head and leaning his chin on his fist, staring blankly off into the middle distance. "Hell, I could even smell our old apartment. Christ, it was a shoebox. It smelt like smoke, damp and stew. Do you remember what Brooklyn smelt like, Pegs?"

Peggy murmured her accent, a wry smile curling the corner of her mouth as she dealt herself a new game of Solitaire onto the little plastic table that slotted across her armchair.

"I do. It was all car fumes and coal and -" she broke off with a raspy chuckle, shaking her head " - cooking meat from all the vendors. I’d been in New York for four days when I bought a hot dog and came down with the most horrific food poisoning I’d ever had in my life."

Even now in her 90s, Peggy Carter was striking. Sure, she was frail, almost birdlike like in stature, and her skin was papery and translucent, but those dark, coppery eyes were the same as they had always been: shrewd and warm. And God, did they draw Steve in.

She’d been the first person he’d asked about when he woke up, closely followed by the rest of his old Howling Commandos squadron of course, but he had wanted desperately to know if Peggy was still alive. And she was. He’d missed Falsworth and Dugan by nigh on a decade, Dernier and Jones by a few years, but Jim Morita? Hell, it’d only been a few weeks. But, for now, he had Peggy back in his life and it was all the richer for it. Her memory was fading, sure, and there were times when she struggled to find the right words, but Steve took solace in the fact they would be able to share a few more years together.

"Could he be alive?" ventured his companion, musing over her playing cards, staunchly not looking at him. "We never did find a body and we combed that stretch of river for days after it happened."

Considering this for a moment, Steve said, "You know, his sister, Becca, thought that - that he was alive. Said it was to do with their psychic link or something."

Steve had always liked Rebecca Barnes. After he woke up, he’d gone looking for her and found that she now went by the name Rebecca Proctor.

She’d been a nurse during the war and, God, had Bucky chewed her out for enlisting. He wanted her to stay home where it was safe, but she hadn’t listened. And unlike Steve, they didn’t have an excuse to turn her away. There was something about that boy that made him surround himself with stubborn assholes who couldn’t back down from a fight.

"And I was the biggest asshole of the lot even without the serum," Steve thought with a wry smile, remembering the day they met up a few months prior.

Becca had thrown herself at him, crying "Well if it isn’t Little Stevie Rogers!" Despite being in her 90s, Becca was as spry and full of energy. They talked for a full hour and a half before finally getting onto her brother. It was a complex dance. Whenever either one of them got too close the other would change the subject. That was until the elephant in the room could be ignored no longer.

"Shall we talk about Jamie?" As ever, she was the only one to call him Jamie. Bucky, she said, was a name for a dog, not her brother, whom she loved, thank you very much. It had always been Jamie, except on the multitude of occasions that she got mad. Then, it was James Buchanan. But never Bucky.

They sat in the living room of her little suburban home and talked. Steve found himself apologising over and over, guilt bubbling up like water from a spring. Sorry for not reaching harder, for not jumping out after him, for somehow surviving dumping a plane in the Arctic, for showing up here, unbidden, like a ghost. Becca was having none of it.

"My brother was many things, but a fool was not one of them," she said, giving him a sharp look. They had the same arresting, steely grey eyes. "Well, perhaps a fool for you, but dammit, Steve, he made his choice to follow your reckless ass."

She paused here for a moment.

"And he loved you. So very much," she said in a much softer voice, taking Steve’s hand and giving it a squeeze. "Besides, I don’t think he’s dead. It’s never felt like he’s dead."

As she said this, she tapped her chest right over her heart with a hollow thud. Still holding his hand, she looked across at Steve, eyes wet.

"Our Ma used to say we had the old magic running through our veins. Never believed her much until Jamie disappeared. People kept on saying, ‘he’s gone, he’s dead and never coming back, you have to move on’ and I just. . . Didn’t believe them. It’s like that thread that always connected us hadn’t broke. Sometimes, I thought I could feel him near me, like he was only a few blocks away, or like I’d look across the way and see him standing there, grinning like a goon." Becca broke off with a world-weary sigh. "I still feel it. Even if it’s been 70 odd years. Somewhere, somehow, he’s out there."

Another memory muscled its way forward and led him away. The old magic. Yeah, Steve remembered that well enough. When the other Commandos found out they teased Bucky something rotten, demanded he read their palms. He fobbed them off for hours as they trekked through the backyard of France, muddied up to their thighs. By the time they called it a day and set up camp, they’d worn him down.

They crowded him, clamouring to be the first as rain battered the tent and the rich, earthy smell of mud filled their nostrils. Taking each hand in turn, and with a cigarette dangling from between his lips, Bucky imparted his insight. Morita would live the longest, Falsworth would be married three times over and Dernier would be a debonair till the day he died. Steve was last and they shuffled close together, sitting on upturned crates, heads bowed and knees interlocked. He took his warm palm in icy fingers and traced the lines with a delicate touch.

He looked long and hard, head bent, cigarette long since discarded. The other Commandos were at their shoulders, jostling to see what Bucky would proclaim. Steve leaned towards his ear.

"What do you see Buck?" he asked in barely more than a whisper.

Dirt and sweat streaked Bucky’s face and blood matted the hair of his left eyebrow from a shallow gash he'd won in their latest scrap.

"Hmm, well, it says here…"

"What? What does it say?"

"Is he gon’ live forever?"

"Does he get the dame in the end?"

"Come on then, lay it on me."

Bucky looked up with a wicked glint in his grey eyes and a grin curling on his lips.

"It says that you’re a colossal fucking dumbass is what it says."

A roar went up from the men. Great, booming laughs echoed in his ears and hands shoved at their shoulders. Bucky grinned his wolfish grin.

"Yeah, yeah like you need to look at my hands to know that. God, you're a jerk," sighed Steve giving an exasperated laugh and knocking their knees together.

"Uh-huh and you’re a punk, what of it," he quipped, "Fine, fine, give it here again." Steve did as he was bid and returned his hand into his friend’s cool grasp. "Your lifeline is a mess Stevie, it starts out shallow, then gets deeper and jagged . . . and then it just fucking stops before picking itself back up again over here. You’re in for some trauma, that’s for fucking sure."

They were all quiet now and Bucky's brow was furrowed, a deep line appearing in the middle.

"Oh, what would a trauma-free life be like, eh Buck? Not like I’m short of it given the present circumstances," he grinned, standing, extracting himself from the closeness of their quarters, and clapping Bucky on the shoulder. Steve laughed with the others who raised their hip flasks at him and drank deeply in solidarity.

Bucky’s head had snapped to him then with the most curious look on his face that only now did Steve recognise as fear.

Later that night as the two of them settled down to sleep with the quiet hubbub of night around them, Steve took Bucky’s hand and placed it palm up in his own, tracing the faint lines that lay there.

"Think you got it in you?" Bucky murmured, grey eyes darkening. "Think you can face it?"

"Sure, if you show me how."

In hushed tones, Bucky guided him through each of the lines, what they represented and how to interpret what they meant. Steve listened intently, not truly understanding but trying all the same. It was like they were home again, talking in whispers under the cover of darkness, spilling secrets they could never share in the light of day. 

Even in the dimming, grey light of their tent Steve could make out his friend’s lifeline. It was deep and short but broken and jagged all the way along, forking off in different directions. 

"We match," he said thickly.

"Ma told me once I was ‘cursed with glorious burden’," he whispered into the night, words laced with bitterness. "I never used to understand it, but I think I’m starting to."

"Like Atlas holding up the world," Steve murmured, stifling a yawn. Sleep tried to draw him down into her sweet embrace, but he fought it, gripping at Bucky’s hands like they were the only lifeline he needed.

"If that’s true, that must make you Prometheus then."

He huffed. That was probably true.

Inevitably, sleep claimed them both and that was how they fell, curled into one another like yin and yang.

"Is it so crazy an idea?"

Peggy’s voice dragged him from his deep reverie back into the present. The smell of mud faded from his nostrils, the quiet hush of breath and wind rustling through towering pines from his ears.

"Steve, you fought aliens barely a week ago. Tony, my _dear_ godson, fell through a wormhole," she continued, a soft laugh whispering across her lips. She laid her cards on the table, folded her hands together, and steadied her gaze on him: waiting for an answer.

"I dunno, Pegs, where would I even start? Where would I find the end of that thread to even begin pulling on it?"

She chewed on her lip and shrugged. "Maybe you’re missing a piece of this puzzle. You said yourself that this whole last week has been taken up with clearing the city and dealing with the aftermath of everything that happened. Maybe something hasn’t come to light yet and you just don’t have all the clues," she reasoned. "There’s a lot of information to parse."

Dragging a hand over his face, Steve conceded. God, he was tired. A deep ache ran through his body. It wasn’t just that his muscles were strained from shifting rubble and lifting girders, they most definitely were, but this cut deeper. It resonated to his very core. It sat heavy behind his eyes, pressing against them so hard he could feel his brain fogging up. He’d been asleep for 70 years, or so they said, but Steve didn’t think for a second that it had been restful. 

They sat in companionable silence for a time. Peggy shuffling dutifully through her cards, playing game after game of Solitaire, winning some and losing others. The tally didn’t seem to bother her. Steve just watched. But in the back of his mind, he kept on replaying the encounter with the impostor. He’d thought it had been Loki, but then, who else could it have been? 

It certainly looked like him. There was no denying that. He was solid, a real person, his fist didn’t fly through nothingness like it had done when he met him in Germany. The impostor had the gaudy uniform, the broad shoulders and the nose that had been broken one too many times. On the surface, yes, they were exactly alike. Except that this man looked older, worn, weary, but not in terms of lines and wrinkles. His blue eyes were sunken, cheeks gaunt around the edges, and his mouth a fierce slash across his face. 

Had his life always been this complicated? Yes, he supposed, but it had been in a simpler way. 

A soft knock cut through the silence and a pretty, blonde nurse in pink, floral scrubs stuck her head around the door.

"Sorry to disturb but there’s someone at the front desk here to see you, Mr. Rogers," she informed them.

With a groan, he stood, brushed down his jeans and straightened his jacket. 

"I better go see who’s looking for me," he sighed, not particularly wanting to leave the comfortable companionship of his old friend. "I’ll try and get back down soon, okay? Don’t have too much fun without me."

"Ach, away with you now," Peggy scolded, flapping her hands at him, a laugh lacing through her words. 

"See you soon." He waggled his eyebrows, waved and followed the nurse from the room. 

It’s not that the retirement home was labyrinthian, but every single corridor looked the same. Bland walls, bland carpet, bland artwork. He was glad to have a guide. 

Once they reached the foyer, the nurse bade him goodbye and gestured towards a familiar redhead. She was perusing an assortment of elderly care leaflets by the door. 

"Agent Romanoff." It was both a question and a greeting. 

Natasha Romanoff turned to face him with one eyebrow raised and mouth curling into a smirk. Seeing Natasha in civilian clothing was unnerving. He was used to seeing her decked out in full tactical gear. Who would know just how deadly the slight woman in dark wash jeans and steel grey Henley was just by looking at her? He couldn’t help but notice she still wore that deadly black bracelet he’d seen deliver a 30,000 volt charge into a man’s neck on her left wrist. 

"Afternoon. We need to talk."

Dread dropped like a lead weight into Steve’s stomach. Romanoff’s green eyes bore into him and he knew that this was no courtesy call. She was all business. There was a reason she’d left that bracelet on full display where he could see it. 

She turned and marched out into the grounds, not waiting to see if he’d follow. Trotting after her, Steve wondered what he could have possibly done to get on the wrong side of the redheaded assassin. They wound their way down the sloping grounds to the lake edge. Few people ventured out this far, and those that did stayed close to the benches and picnic tables. Romanoff on the other hand, led them to a small copse of trees at the far away edge where they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

"What is this, Romanoff?" he sniped when eventually they stopped. She had put him on edge and he felt like a coiled spring. Placing his hand on his hips, Steve gave what he hoped was his best ‘Captain America means business’ face. 

"Give me your phone."

"What? Why?"

"Just give it to me."

Complying, he handed her the sleek, slip of metal that passed for a phone these days. Snatching it from him, Romanoff pressed her left wrist to the device. A shock of blue, a crackle, and she dropped it to grass where it lay smoking. 

"What the hell did you do that for?" Steve demanded, lurching towards the smouldering ruins of his phone. 

"We can’t afford to be overheard."

"But all my files –"

"Are backed up to the secure Cloud storage that JARVIS has in place for all our data," she interjected smoothly. Her face was an impenetrable mask. Or, perhaps more fittingly, it was a mirror, reflecting everything back onto the beholder and giving nothing away of what lay beneath the surface.

"I can’t just make Stark give me a new one."

"Yes, you can. When you get back to DC dump it in the Potomac and say that it slipped – short circuit and boom, new phone."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve let out an exasperated breath.

"Fine. But you didn’t answer my question. What is this?"

"You tell me, Rogers," she countered, pulling her own phone from her back pocket. 

With a few deft swipes, she brought up what looked like surveillance footage of an elevator. Men dressed all in black filed in, shuffling to make room for everyone. There was Brock Rumlow, head of STRIKE Team One, a bald-headed man with glasses he knew only by sight, and there, sliding in just as the doors were about to close was Steve. Except it wasn’t Steve. Those sunken blue eyes had haunted him for a week, he’d know them anywhere. 

Frowning, he watched the back and forth between the SHIELD agents and the impostor. The staff. He was after Loki’s staff with whatever mind control powers it possessed. They weren’t budging, claiming their orders came from on high. The impostor paused a moment and leaned towards the bald-headed man and said so softly that the comms almost didn’t pick it up:

"Heil Hydra."

Steve started, rocking back on his heels, eyes flicking between Romanoff and the phone. They just handed the impostor the case. Confusion rattled through him, mind racing. How could this be? 

Romanoff clicked the phone off as the impostor met him on the bridge and they began to fight. She searched his face, eyes raking him over. A deep tremor ran through him. Hydra was alive.

"So, you’re a secret Nazi," she stated, folding her arms across her chest. Her lips were pressed together into a tight line, and there was an almost imperceptible twitch to her left eye. 

"I am _not_ a secret Nazi, Romanoff."

"That’s exactly what a secret Nazi would say."

"That was Loki, an impostor, _someone_. Not me," he growled through gritted teeth. 

Heat flashed through him. Energy flooded his system and all he wanted to do was move, to rage and burn and shout. With considerable effort, he stayed rooted to the spot and stared the woman down. 

"You seemed to have the STRIKE Team and Sitwell convinced." She quirked her head to the side, daring him to contradict her. 

"I am not a fucking Nazi."

They inhabited a tense silence for a few beats and Romanoff observed him with icy intent. She was in a fighting stance, he noted: left leg drawn back, hips square to him, an ever so slight bend to the knee - ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. 

"Tsk tsk, Rogers. Language. Whatever would your adoring public think of Captain America if they knew he had such a potty mouth?" 

"Go fuck yourself."

She let out a barking laugh and straightened. Her posture was impeccable and she naturally seemed to adjust herself to stand in first position. 

"Relax, I know you’re not a Nazi, Rogers. Or a Hydra agent for that matter. I just wanted to double-check," Romanoff explained, shaking stray hairs from her eyes and shoving her hand deep into the pockets of the jacket she wore slung over her henley. 

"Who else has access to that footage?" Steve demanded, heart pounding and mouth dry. 

"Nobody. I commandeered all security footage after the attack to go over myself before handing it over to SHIELD. Since we had all that trouble with Loki and then Tony’s, uh, heart attack I wanted to see if there was anything weird going on." A frown creased her features for a second as she stumbled over that part about Stark, on the back foot and unsure. He was fine, a bit shaken but otherwise unharmed, and on compulsory bed rest thanks to a certain Pepper Potts.

"How do you know your device is secure?"

The look Romanoff shot his way was one of deep insult.

"I know how to keep JARVIS and any other Peeping Toms out of my business. That’s my job, Rogers, in case you had forgotten." The icy edge to her voice had returned.

Steve held up his hands and ducked his head, not wanting to fight. He’d seen what she could do with enough provocation and didn’t really want to start a scene here of all places. 

"Okay, fine. I just wanted to make sure we were secure." He heaved a sigh and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead for a moment. "If we have JARVIS send the jet we can pick up tactical gear and be back in D.C. to storm STRIKE HQ before it gets dark out. Get on to Clint, Rho –"

"No."

"No? What do you mean no? If Hydra has infiltrated SHIELD then we need to rip them out root and stem."

"This isn’t a situation where you can go in fists flying and hope that you can punch your way out of a bad deal," reasoned Romanoff, her face was light and clear, unyielding. She raised her chin and set her jaw, daring him to argue further. "We need more intel. We need to know how deep this goes and how far back. This _needs_ a delicate approach, so you’re going to have to trust me, Cap. Do a bit of delegation."

Working his jaw, Steve realised she was right. Of course, she was right. STRIKE and Sitwell were only the tip of the iceberg. Who knew how far-reaching Hydra’s influence was. Hands on hips, fingers pressing into the rough fabric of his khakis, he turned towards the water’s edge, looking out across the water. It was calm. There was hardly a breath of wind, and the air was warm. Sweat prickled across his back. A storm was coming.

"I know this isn’t a fight you want to have again, but you’re the person best qualified to do it," Romanoff murmured, moving to stand next to him. Her green eyes gazed sightlessly across the water and Steve saw her gulp. It was a rare crack in the polished Black Widow veneer.

Steve gave a harsh laugh.

"I’m serious. Look, as far as the STRIKE Team knows, you’re one of them, we can use that to our advantage. Did the impostor say _anything_ to you that could be of use?" Romanoff probed. 

"He told me that Bucky was alive."

"Oh."

She took in the piece of information, nodding, brows knitting together. 

"Hmm, that can’t be a coincidence. I’ll look into it. I can keep this information contained for now. Until we know more, it’s better to keep this between us."

"We should get back to New York. We have a lot of work to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few acknowledgements and thanks now that we've got this ball rolling!
> 
> They say it takes a village, and this fic would never have seen the light of day it wasn't for the likes of [steveandbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky/pseuds/steveandbucky) and [mcrshrank](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcrshank/pseuds/mcrshank), who are not only wonderful friends but were my betas and an unwavering hype squad even when I was being a whiny bitch. Thanks also go to the #writing-supplies crew over at [hogwartsonline](https://hogwartsonline.tumblr.com/) for sprinting with me and throwing me all the love and support I needed to finally finish writing this. This wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you all, so thank you. <3
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! Strap in because we're going on a journey.
> 
> Come and find me [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	2. Friends & Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You think it's the same person?"_
> 
> _"Depends who you ask."_
> 
> _"I'm asking you."_
> 
> _Romanoff uncurled and reached for the file he was holding, flicking through the papers within._
> 
> _"Yes, I do."_
> 
>   
> || Steve's search begins and uneasy alliances are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to link this last week but the fic playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lTxq8nW3F4YwUgtvGrwBY?si=4nzzwqLkQVSlhu4ihtbaBA) if you fancy some tunes while reading.

It had been six weeks since the Battle of New York. Slowly, so slowly, the city was beginning to get back to normal. The worst of the rubble had been removed, buildings re-opened, and Chitauri remains were transferred to secure SHIELD locations for further examination. In some places, it looked as though the battle had never happened, and people went about their days as they had always done. But in others, the damage was deeper: great craters in the streets and gashes in the sides of buildings that left wires hanging down the side like tears. Grand Central Station remained closed, its roof a gaping wound.

It had been four weeks and two days since Agent Romanoff had told Steve - in no uncertain terms - to ‘lay low and not cause a scene’ until she had returned from her recon mission. She planned on digging into SHIELD and investigating how they could be tied to Hydra. As a result, he’d spent the following month throwing himself into the clean-up operation as best he could. 

Any time he spent outside of his bare Brooklyn apartment was spent down in the streets. He cleared rubble. Where there were still people trapped under fallen buildings, he held up stone and metal for the rescue teams. Dust covered faces with bottomless eyes stared at him, huddled together with gaping mouths. They didn’t care who he was, they were just thankful to be free. Then, once night came, he was so tired that he collapsed onto his sofa and into a fitful sleep fuelled by nightmares of the past where he’d wake with ice in his lungs.

Steve kept so busy that there was no time to be cornered by Brock Rumlow or the bald-headed man he learned was named Jasper Sitwell. They had returned to D.C. and until Romanoff returned, he planned on keeping as much distance between them as possible. In truth, his fingers itched to tear them all down, to go raging through D.C. until he stood in the burning remains of an empire. But he remained in New York. 

The climb up to his apartment at the end of the day felt like a Sisyphean task. Why had he bought an eighth-floor apartment in a building with no elevator? Dust clung to him. It was in his hair, his ears. Sweat streaked his face and a T-shirt that had once been white stuck to his back. 

Steve’s mind was numb and wired all at the same time. He felt like he was still working, straining to hold up great swathes of building. Any people they found hidden in the debris these days were retrieved under white sheets. 

As he finally reached his apartment door, Steve’s thoughts turned to a hot shower and a long, hopefully, dreamless sleep. He didn’t hold out much hope for the latter.

His apartment was cool and still held the faint smell of coffee from that morning. It was remarkably similar to his old apartment from before the war with its bathroom off the kitchen, high ceilings and hardwood floors. It was, however, just as bare. He’d hung a few nondescript pictures, but great stretches of wall remained blank and beige. Honestly, he straight up didn’t have enough stuff to fill the place. Even if it was a shoebox. 

Shrugging through the kitchen door, he threw his keys on the counter with a clatter. A solitary plate and a single mug sat in his sink and the amber light of his coffee machine blinked at him in greeting. Shit. He’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off again. Not wanting to waste the remaining coffee in the pot, he retrieved the dirty mug. 

"Evening, Rogers," came a cool voice from behind him.

Steve spun, raising the mug behind his head. A spike of adrenaline coursed through him. His eyes raked the kitchen.

Agent Romanoff sat leaning back on one of his creaky kitchen chairs. She somehow looked younger than she was, only pushing out of her teens rather than her 20s. Her bright red hair was pinned back out of her face and she wasn’t wearing a scrap of makeup. The lemon-yellow T-shirt dress patterned with sailboats certainly didn’t help matters either. Discarded by her side was a bleached denim jacket. She looked positively girlish. 

But there, as always, on her left wrist was that deadly bracelet of hers. 

"Jesus, Romanoff!" Steve yelled, swinging his mug wielding arm down and turning a few paces away from her. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned, heart still pounding. "You’re allowed to knock, preferably when I’m here and can let you in myself."

"But where would the fun in that be when I can sneak in and give you a fright," she said with a saccharine smile. "I took care of these for you, by the way."

Leaning her chain back forward with a thud, Romanoff sprinkled several plastic devices onto the Formica tabletop. They each had a tiny antenna and the words ‘Stark Industries’ emblazoned on the sides. Bugs. Could he honestly say he was surprised? No, he supposed. He couldn’t.

"Coming courtesy of SHIELD, not Tony, they just like to use his tech," she explained before fishing several files and packets from the canvas messenger bag on the floor and tossing them onto the table. 

"This was all I could gather in the time I had, but it’s enough to go on," she told him. 

And it most certainly was. Ten minutes later, once Steve had showered and changed, he was crammed onto his dilapidated couch with Agent Romanoff by his side. She had been thorough. Anything that she thought could be linked to Hydra, she had researched. She sat with her legs curled up, feet tucked neatly underneath her. 

Steve sifted through the papers. The bulk of them was centred on a series of political assassinations from the last 50 years, significant figures put down in their prime when they were needed most. 

"So, you think these assassinations are linked to Hydra?" asked Steve, mind reeling with the amount of information being presented to him. 

"Seemed likely. There was always something I couldn't quite put my finger on about them," she mused. "They have too many similarities not to flag up in the system: soviet slug, no casing, impossible shots, the victims themselves. It was too much to think it was the work of an individual. Makes sense if it was being bankrolled by Hydra." 

Steve nodded, leaning forward on his knees, one hand cupping his face.

"You think it's the same person?" 

"Depends who you ask." 

"I'm asking you." 

Romanoff uncurled and reached for the file he was holding, flicking through the papers within. 

"Yes, I do." She was quiet, eyes shifting restlessly over the information before her.

So, they had someone skilled on their side: elusive and deadly. 

"Cut off one head and two more will grow in its place," murmured Steve, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Agent Romanoff’s head snapped up. 

"What did you say?" The words came out harsh, guttural at the back of her throat. 

"Cut off one head and two others will grow in its place? It was Hydra’s tagline of sorts," Steve explained, eyebrows falling easily into a confused frown. "Why?"

"No, no reason, I thought . . . no, never mind, I must be mistaken," she blurted, giving herself a shake. Steve’s frown deepened, but before he could question her further, she handed him a slim manila folder. It was dogeared and faded, but, across the front, stamped in bold red lettering, were the words: Operation Paperclip. "This is where I think it started."

When Steve looked inside, he saw a face that haunted his nightmares. The round, bespectacled face of Arnim Zola leered out at him from the page. One of many Nazi scientists recruited by the SSR after the war, Zola worked at the forefront of American science until his death in the 70s. Howard Stark had wanted his brain but by God did he get so much more.

"How do you want to approach this?" inquired the redhead, curling in on herself again, twisting to face him.

Steve adjusted himself, turning towards Romanoff and bracing his ankle across his knee, one arm slung across the back of the sofa.

"If the Strike Team think I'm one of them then let's use that, but -" he paused, a sudden flush creeping up the back of his neck. "I don't know the first thing about espionage."

This made Romanoff smile, eyes bright and wide, mouth curving ever so slightly upwards.

"No, but we work with what we have," she chuckled before growing serious once more. "Can you face it? Do you have it in you? It's been 70 years for us but for you, it's a lot more recent than that."

Steve looked at his palm, at his broken lifeline.

"Do I have a choice?"

"There's always a choice." 

"No, there's not." 

  
  


And so, it came to pass that a week later Steve found himself walking into the office of Alexander Pierce, Secretary of the World Security Council. He was decked out in a new uniform courtesy of Tony Stark, who, for all intents and purposes, was  _ supposed _ to be on bed rest. It had arrived a few days before with a note reading,  _ "Tights aren’t your style, Capsicle. Coulson was many things but a paragon of style he was not. Regards, TS." _

The suit was a deep navy blue with red and white panelling on the torso and an extravagant silver star on the chest. It had moulded protective pads around his elbows and knees and there were thick harness straps across his shoulders with ultra-strong magnets that held his shield in place. He almost hated to admit it, but it looked damn good. 

Alexander Pierce welcomed Steve into his office with a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. Nerves pooled in his lower abdomen, twisting and turning this way and that. He swallowed as he followed Pierce deeper into his office, hoping, above all else, that his face wouldn’t betray him. He could hear Bucky’s voice in his ear, teasing him, saying that even the man on the moon could read him like an open book. But he shook it off. There was no room for distractions.

Situated on the top floor of the Triskelion, the window-lined office was large and imposing. There were views all across the city. From one window you could see the White House, and from the other Capitol Hill. 

"What can I do for you today, Captain Rogers?" inquired Pierce, seating himself behind the behemoth slab of wood he called a desk. 

"I’d like to start running missions with the STRIKE Team and I have a particular interest in the more  _ covert _ operations," Steve began, taking a seat. His new suit creaked, the material still stiff with disuse. 

"Is that so? And why would that be?" Pierce cocked his head to the side, chin resting on steepled fingers.

"I believe I’d be a valuable asset to the team, Sir." Steve’s jaw was set. 

"As it happens, Mr Rumlow has already requested that you start working together. Seems you made quite the impression on him after New York," said Pierce. "And thank you for delivering Loki's staff so rapidly. It has already proved to be a boon to our research."

Steve hadn’t done anything of the sort, of course. It must have been the impostor, he realised. The thought didn’t sit well with him. 

"You're welcome, Sir, anything I can do to help the cause." The lie, however, came easily, tripping off his tongue.

"And speaking of the cause, what swayed Captain America to our side?"

Steve steeled himself, he'd been expecting this question.

"Well, Sir, when you've seen the things I have, it's easy to get disillusioned with the current state of affairs. Something is broke. And it needs to be fixed. It was the same in '45 and it's the same now," he explained, stomach churning. "Instead of sittin’ getting angry, I decided to take action. Sometimes to build a new world, you have to tear the old one down."

This was Agent Romanoff’s doing. One of the first rules of lying and the key to making it believable, she said, was to base it in a grain of truth. Yes, he thought that a great many things were broken and needed fixing, just not in the way they did. 

Pierce regarded him, gaze cool and illegible. It was so quiet Steve was sure he’d be able to hear his heart hammering against his chest. He’d never been a good liar. Even as a kid. But then he smiled. It was a cold, detached thing that didn’t reach his eyes, only stretching the skin of his mouth.

"Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement, Captain."

Before long, that’s exactly what happened. Within weeks he was out in the field running missions. If he was honest, most of the time he was little more than a glorified bodyguard to people who he was sure were far shadier than their polished, ever-charming exteriors presented. On other occasions, he was sent to retrieve things. Sometimes it was a clearly defined object; a weapon, a suitcase, a carelessly discarded artefact. Sometimes it was more nebulous: information needing extracted, be it from some computer in a dusty old warehouse or a tight-lipped man with scarred hands and a broken nose. More often than not, it was the tight-lipped man. Wherever he went, there were tight-lipped men but he had always found ways of making them talk. One way or another.

The scraps these men offered him never made much sense. They babbled about far off countries, deadly killers, and, wars fought with words that were hidden under layers of niceties and a tangled web of lies. They were each one puzzle piece, but it was like he was trying to put together a jigsaw without the box. 

Not that it mattered. The men of the STRIKE Team craved violence like it was a drug. They sought it out, delighted in it, and Brock Rumlow was the worst of the lot. During the interrogations, Rumlow often took the lead. He understood what he needed from these men in a way that Steve didn’t. He carved it out of their targets with precision, knowing exactly where to stick that cattle prod. It crackled with vicious blue electricity, and when it hit his victim’s skin, a sickeningly familiar smell of smoking flesh would fill whatever dingy, badly lit room they were holed up in. 

It made Steve feel dirty. It went against everything his Ma had ever taught him. He’d been a good, god-fearing boy once, offering up his  _ Ave Marias _ ,  _ Pater Nosters _ , and even the odd  _ Salve Regina _ , but since waking up, he hadn’t been able to face it. The words that had brought him so much comfort now felt hollow and useless. At least during the war, he’d been able to cling to the fact they had the moral high ground, that what they were doing served the greater good. He’d told himself that particular story so much that he almost believed it. These days, he didn’t have that luxury.

Everything he found out he reported back to Agent Romanoff. They piled up each new discovery, poured over it, tried to find the bigger picture, and hoarded their stash like greedy dragons. 

Since beginning the operation, Romanoff had started to spend more and more time at his apartment. It was quiet, she argued, and she got more work done with fewer distractions. She had taken up residence on a fold-out cot in his living room, having come armed with a duffel bag almost the size of her one day and announced that she would be staying ‘for a little while’.

Adjusting to her being there hadn’t been as weird as he’d been expecting. She was a quiet, unobtrusive presence. When Steve turned in for the night, she was always still working, sitting cross-legged on his couch with her hair pulled back messily as she frowned at the glowy, blue-lit screen of her laptop. Then, in the morning, he’d find her in the same position, already back at it, bed rumpled, so at least she slept. He never actually saw her sleep, but he assumed that that was by careful design. She’d wander around his apartment in a too big grey T-shirt that had a faded red bullseye on the front, drinking coffee that was both way too strong and way too sweet, and eating peanut butter sandwiches. Her left wrist, however, was never without that deadly black bracelet. 

Somewhere down the line she stopped being Agent Romanoff, the famed Black Widow who he tip-toed around, and simply became Natasha, who he scolded for leaving dirty teaspoons on his nice clean countertop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for such a warm reception on last week's chapter! It was so lovely to see people's responses and was so encouraging. <3
> 
> Until next week! 
> 
> In the meantime, find me on Tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)!


	3. See a Man About a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The call to violence was a siren song and he was Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship._
> 
> _He longed to rage and tear and burn and bloody his knuckles, but for now, he had to bide his time. Just a little longer. A little further. He could do that, right? If it meant finding Bucky then he’d have to. There was no question._
> 
> ||Natasha crafts a goober and goes to see a man about a dog. Quite literally.

Steve had had a very, _very_ long couple of days. He’d had to lay into some guys he was fairly certain didn’t deserve it and his knuckles ached. An uncomfortable feeling had settled in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up this façade. The more he spouted their poison, the more he questioned his claim to the so-called moral high ground.

Prowling back and forth in front of his coffee table and gesticulating broadly with his hands, he vented his frustration. Natasha sat ramrod straight on the sofa, legs folded into an easy lotus position, and watched him with clear, bright eyes.

"We’re no closer to bringing them down than we were at the beginning of this mess, and I’m no closer to finding Bucky either," Steve grumbled. "I don’t even know if he _is_ alive." 

"I know you’re frustrated, but we have to keep going. If we want to bring them down it can’t be brick by brick, it has to be so cataclysmic that they have nowhere to hide," Natasha insisted, voice soft but urgent. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to talk him down off this ledge. She cast the laptop aside, stretching like a cat. "If only we could get inside their computers. I bet the servers are a goldmine. There’s only so much I can do from here."

That gave him pause. 

"If you had access to Pierce’s computer do you think you could get what you need?" he probed, not ceasing his relentless pacing. "How long would it take?"

Natasha considered this for a moment. Her gaze was far away, staring way off into the middle distance as she germinated the beginnings of a plan.

"With the right tech? Not long at all. If I’m going straight into his computer, I’d be able to bypass the retinal scans and voice commands," she said, each word measured out carefully. "I could plant a virus and I’d have access to everything Pierce does. All of SHIELD, all of Hydra, laid bare."

It was a tantalising thought. They had only scratched the surface, the rest was just out of reach but even just with this skeleton of a plan, it suddenly felt so much closer. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he was sure that the key to finding his friend lay somewhere deep in the Hydra archives.

"Then do what you have to do," Steve said, setting his jaw and holding Natasha’s gaze. She stared back, unflinching, and nodded. 

Natasha worked solidly for three weeks. She tried her best to explain what she was doing, but after a certain point, Steve had to hold up his hands in defeat and trust that her skill would win through in the end. Sometimes, when the going got tough, he would hear her muttering curses in Russian. Other times, there would be a loud clatter followed by stomping feet and the slam of his apartment door. 

As if sensing he was plotting against them, his missions with the STRIKE team increased in volume. He did, however, remain little more than a glorified bodyguard and courier. His missions mostly stayed within US borders, but for a spell of four days he was flown out to a tiny eastern European country and he spent his 94th birthday being given the tour of a lab that promised ‘big things’. They were the ones who had secured Loki’s staff. They spouted some techno-science bullshit about enhancements and human evolution at him, and he nodded like he was placated. In reality, he fumed. The call to violence was a siren song and he was Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. 

He longed to rage and tear and burn and bloody his knuckles, but for now, he had to bide his time. Just a little longer. A little further. He could do that, right? If it meant finding Bucky then he’d have to. There was no question.  
  


One afternoon, a little after four, Natasha chirruped, "I’m finished."

Steve looked up from his spot on the floor where he’d been going over a report. She vibrated with excited energy, leaning forward on the sofa, eager and bright. Gripped between her fingers was a pen drive in the shape of Iron Man’s helmet. The seething heat of her victory rolled off her in waves. 

"You finished?"

"Better believe it, baby." There was fire and steel in her voice. She crushed their salvation in her fist and fixed him with her burning stare. "When we get this bad boy where it needs to be we’ll know where Hydra buys their goddamn breakfast cereal."

Each word was guttural and rapid-fire. Unable to contain her energy, Natasha leapt from her spot and began pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table. Steve followed her with precision, eyes tracking every movement. Gone was the fluid dancer’s grace he had become so accustomed to. She was staccato, roiling and electric. 

"How do we plant it? That’s the next part. _How_?" she stressed, thumping her pen drive clutching fist into her palm. 

A rapid stream of muttered Russian started spilling from her mouth. She did that sometimes, Steve had noticed, whenever she got riled up. 

Casting aside his laptop, he was about to offer up a solution to their predicament when the opening strains of "YMCA" by the Village People rang out from the depths of Natasha’s pocket. She scrabbled for her phone, turning her back on Steve and stalking a few paces away. The conversation was brief, monosyllabic, and offered no clue as to who the caller was. 

"I have to go and see a man about a dog," Natasha said, dropping the pen drive on the table and gliding from the room.

It was only as the front door slammed shut that Steve registered what had just happened. One second she was fixated on their plan, the next she was gone. Shaking his head, he heaved himself up with a groan. 

"See a man about a dog," he muttered, placing his hands on his hips and throwing his eyes heavenward. "Whatever."

A keen curiosity unfurled in his chest as his eyes landed on the pen drive. It was only about the size of his thumb and it had a little ridged slider on the back that pushed out its metal key. He picked it up and brought it up to eye level. This tiny device would unlock everything. 

He tried to remember if there had been anything even remotely like this before. No, he supposed not. Everything had been bulky and hard to move. But with the steady march of progress, here they were. 

Swimming up behind his eyes was the night of the Stark Expo. If they hadn’t been at war Steve might have enjoyed it, but he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t paid much attention. Sure, the floating car had been cool and all but, in truth, he hadn’t looked too hard. Most of what he remembered of that moment was the backs of people’s heads: the two curly-haired dames giggling and clamouring for more excitement, the bobbing and weaving as people craned to get a better look at The Future. And then there was Bucky. 

He’d looked so . . . _dashing_ in his uniform. Yes, dashing was the word for it. He’d practised getting that stupid hat to sit at the perfect rakish angle for a solid half-hour when it first arrived. And it paid off. With the hat, the freshly pressed uniform, and painted-on smile, you’d never know just how fucking scared he was. But Steve knew. It leaked into every argument they had about him enlisting. 

They’d go around and around in circles. Steve insisting that he had to do is part, that there were men dying and why should he be stuck at home collecting scrap metal and painting pretty pictures; Bucky yelling at him not to be so fucking reckless, that war wasn’t a game or some bully in an alley. It ended in a stalemate every time. At best, they’d laugh it off, Bucky would ruffle his hair and they’d blow off steam for a few hours at some dive bar with watered-down beer; at worst, they’d descend into a screaming match, each snarling in the other’s face, and they’d go to bed, back to back and silently fuming. Usually, by morning, it would have blown over but it always lingered just below the surface, thorny and jagged, and threatening to pierce through at any moment. Perhaps, if he’d been a little less bull-headed, he’d have listened. Except he hadn’t. And here he was.

Steve didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse.

He let himself get lost in his memories for a while. It was as much a self-indulgence as it was torture. But he did it anyway. What ifs swirled around his brain. He couldn’t stop himself. He became so absorbed that when four, brisk raps sounded on his front door, he jumped. Startled from his reverie, he hauled himself up to let Natasha in. Because who else could it be? Noone came to see him. Why she was knocking, he didn’t know. She had a key. Nothing prepared him for the scene that lay before him. 

First was Natasha, looking somewhat dishevelled but otherwise the same as when she had left. But standing behind her, clutching a huge, yellow, one-eyed Labrador to his chest and sporting a broken nose with two rapidly blackening eyes to boot, was Clint Barton. Blood crusted his top lip and spattered across his chest, staining his blue flannel shirt. 

"Man," Natasha said, gesturing to Clint. "Dog." She indicated the Labrador that was still wriggling in his arms.

"Hey Steeb," Clint said, a lopsided grin plastered over his face, voice thick from the broken nose. 

"Oh, uh, come in, I guess."

As he moved aside, Natasha slunk back into the apartment, tension sliding from her shoulders. Clint wandered forward, plopping the dog on the floor and giving it a good, heavy scratch behind the ears. It woofed softly and wagged its tail.

Steve didn't know what to say.

"You got coffee? I'm dying here."

"Yeah, kitchen. Fresh pot. First on your left."

Clint trotted away, fiddling with his hearing aid and stumbling as he kicked off his sneakers. The dog ambled after him, snuffling at his feet. Steve rounded on Natasha.

"Explain."

This felt like some kind of absurdist dream.

"There were some guys ragging on a woman a few blocks from here. Clint got involved. The dog tried to get involved. The guys started trying to rag on the dog. I don't know, it's a Tuesday. Clint got in a fight. What's new?" Natasha said with a shrug. "I'll replace anything he breaks. I promise."

As if on cue the tinkling of shattering china came from the kitchen followed by a soft, dejected moan: "Aww, no."

Natasha grimaced and mouthed, "Sorry!"

A moment later, Clint came shuffling back into the hall swigging straight from the coffee pot. He had a hole in one of his socks, his big toe peeping out.

"Sorry, Cap. I'll replace that."

"No you won't," interjected Natasha. He stuck his tongue out at her. "Did you at least save us some?"

With a vague wave behind him, the archer started towards the living room. He had at least, Steve conceded, cleaned up the smashed mug. It was one he'd bought not long after he'd woken up. Bright blue with a pillar box red handle, it depicted several panels from the old comic books they printed back in the day about him and the Howling Commandos. It had amused him. He and Bucky used to sit shoulder to shoulder laughing at those comics, and Bucky would complain about the ridiculous storylines. For reasons still unknown to him, the artist had given his helmet actual wings, and Bucky a red mask and a churlish grin. He was disappointed. He'd liked that mug. It held the perfect amount of coffee needed to wake him up in the morning. 

"What is this hipster bullshit?" demanded Clint around a mouthful of Natasha's leftover pizza the moment they joined him in the living room, coffee in hand. 

It was a goat's cheese and red onion chutney concoction on, what the menu called, a 'rustica base'. This, Steve suspected, was an excuse to make their pizzas misshapen and prevent complaints. He hadn't wanted to admit it but it was delicious. 

"Shut up, you love my hipster bullshit," Natasha said, pushing past Steve and throwing herself down onto the sofa next to Clint, legs sprawled across his lap. He made a face but didn't complain. Natasha, Steve noted, signed as she spoke, hands flashing along with her words.

They continued like this for several minutes, bickering about pizza and the way Natasha made her coffee. They found reasons to touch one another: a graze to the arm, a bump to the shoulder, an elbow to the ribs. Watching them from his spot on the floor, Steve felt a prick of jealousy. He recognised this, had had it, or something like it, once. They sat safe in the acknowledgement of some unspoken thing, in that space between friends and something more.

"Tasha says she finished the goober for your heist or whatever," said Clint, drawing Steve from his brooding. 

He looked up from the depths of his coffee. Two pink spots had appeared on Natasha’s face and she was shifting in place, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. 

"She told you about that?"

"Uh huh, said you were a secret Nazi too," Clint mused, fishing a pink band aid from his pocket and adhering it to the gash across the bridge of his nose before reaching for another slice of pizza. 

Slack-jawed, Steve glanced between the two spies on his sofa. Christ. He liked Clint, really, he did but he had never once considered clueing him in on the intricacies of their less than legal antics.

"You _told_ him?"

"Told me everything, actually."

"What happened to keeping this between us?"

"Clint doesn’t count," she mumbled, eyebrows knitted together. 

The spark of anger that had been kindling extinguished itself. He understood. He remembered that too, what it was like to have someone who 'didn't count'.

"Well then, you want in?" he asked with a resigned sigh.

"Do you even have to ask? Where she goes I follow."

Natasha dipped her head, a smile hitching at the side of her mouth.

And, as Steve looked at them, a plan sprung fully formed to his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty quick one this week but I think after next week the chapters tend to get a bit longer. But, this week, we've welcomed Clint into the fold and I couldn't be happier to have him. He's my favourite loveable dumbass. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Can't wait to hear your thoughts. <3
> 
> Until next week!
> 
> You can find me [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	4. Inside Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He yearned to be up there, to be doing something more than just staring at screens, but it had gone without saying that he’d have to be their man in the chair. It didn’t matter if he wore a mesh mask and turned into some nameless man, he was too conspicuous. If he was truly honest with himself, he was too volatile and he didn’t trust himself not to buckle under the pressure of remaining anonymous._
> 
> ||Steve, Clint, and Natasha plan a heist, of sorts, and infiltrate further into Hydra’s web of lies.

The van was nondescript. Blue paint job, tinted windows, it looked completely unremarkable from the outside. Inside, however, was a different story. Monitors and surveillance equipment lined the walls in the back, aglow with blue light. Steve was suited, shield at his side, going over the screens searching for Natasha and Clint. It was 3:55 pm. Five minutes until go time.

He spotted Clint, then Natasha. Both were in position. He had to keep reminding himself that they didn't look like themselves. Natasha had provided a special mesh that completely changed their appearance and a device that modulated their voices. They could become anyone.

Instead of her usual halo of fiery curls, there was a strawberry blonde wig styled into a tight braid and she wore the face of a woman several years her senior. Lines creased her eyes and there were deep grooves around her thin-lipped mouth. It was a face used to smiling.

Clint was bearded and dark-haired with a heavy-set jaw. Through the comms, Steve could hear him complaining about the coloured contacts that changed his usually bright blue eyes to a warm, golden brown.

"Worst part of any mission! They itch!" he moaned.

"Focus," Steve scolded. On the monitor, Clint jostled with a tray laden with coffee and cookies. 

He approached Alexander Pierce’s office with care, only allowing himself a few furtive glances around before entering. Pierce was the picture of serenity behind that stupidly large desk. Tension rolled through Steve like an overwound spring. Every muscle in his body clenched tighter with every inward breath. He watched Clint approach, exchanging small talk. Through the second comm, Natasha’s breath hitched but, on the monitor, she appeared stoic, calm as she resolutely polished the glass windows of the neighbouring office. 

Then, Clint tripped. The tray flew from his hands. Cookies scattered. Coffee spilt right down the front of Pierce’s sharp suit. What was once white became muddy brown. 

The Secretary cried out, scrambling up from his chair and staring in horror at the state of his clothes. Clint stood, dejected, chaos all around. 

"Aww coffee, no."

Steve leaned further forward, so close his vision began to blur. This had to work. It had to. Something inside him felt close to breaking. He was hanging from a precipice on frayed gossamer strands.

"Come on, take the bait," he muttered. "Leave damn it."

"Out of my way!" snapped Pierce, shoving past Clint to retrieve a spare suit from a closet hidden behind a bookcase. "Find someone to clear this mess before I get back."

"Yes, sir, right away sir."

Storming out of frame, Pierce reappeared in the corridor. Clint motioned to Natasha and on swift feet, she propelled her cleaning cart into the Secretary’s office. Drawing the blinds, she set to work, even with her mesh mask, she had the same facial quirks. Steve could hear clacking in his ear as her fingers flew across the keys. It seemed to drum in time with his frantic heartbeat. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he scanned for Pierce. There, second row, third monitor from the right, he was just entering the bathroom across the floor. They had cordoned off the two nearest ones, forcing the Secretary to go as far away as possible. 

"Natasha? Do you copy? How’re things looking?" On the screen he could see her press her lips together, her eyebrows furrowing.

"This is a complex system. Nothing I can’t handle." A steely edge had entered her voice. It was a tone he’d become accustomed to in their brief tenure as roommates, and, perhaps, even tentative friends. When she set her mind to something, Natasha got shit done.

Nervous energy sizzled through Steve. His leg jittered under the desk, and his eyes flickered from screen to screen. Pierce was still in the bathroom, and no one had tried to enter his office. Back to Nat and Clint. Clint had tidied the mess onto the cleaner’s cart and was now positioned by the door. From underneath his suit jacket, he’d produced a staff. Just in case.

"We're almost done. Just need a few more minutes then we can get out of here," Natasha informed him. "And I'm buying us a case of doughnuts. What do you think, Clint? Doughnuts sound good?"

"You betcha."

Steve was about to tell her to get back to the task at hand when he spotted Pierce exiting the bathroom.

"Shit. Clint, I need you to run interference. Pierce is headed your way. Keep him occupied till Nat is done."

"Yes, sir!"

Stowing his staff, Clint slipped from the room and wove his way towards Pierce. He intercepted him, grovelling and scraping for forgiveness and insisting on buying him a coffee from the canteen. The Secretary hummed and hawed, seemingly unwilling to let this stranger draw him away from the confines of his office but his caffeine addiction won out, allowing Clint to lead him away.

Letting out a tense breath, Steve returned to Natasha. Clint could handle this. The cafeteria was fifteen floors down and once the archer got talking, there was no escaping. They had time. 

For the first time, he allowed himself to entertain the thought of succeeding. With all this information they could destroy Hydra once and for all. He yearned to be up there, to be doing something more than just staring at screens, but it had gone without saying that he’d have to be their man in the chair. It didn’t matter if he wore a mesh mask and turned into some nameless man, he was too conspicuous. If he was truly honest with himself, he was too volatile and he didn’t trust himself not to buckle under the pressure of remaining anonymous. 

Fuck. 

"Natasha, bogey inbound. Rumlow headed your way."

"Shit. We’re two minutes out. There go our doughnuts." she muttered, gathering cleaning supplies and switching the screen to something inoffensive. 

Rumlow stalked down the corridor, pausing at the closed blinds of Pierce’s office. 

"Stay down, whatever happens. If you start yelling, he’ll hear," Natasha said in a low growl, spritzing the desk with her spray bottle. 

Heart in his throat and with the hot, metallic lump of panic rising in his chest, Steve watched, impotent to do anything, as Rumlow entered the office. He walked with the coiled swagger of a big cat, self-assured and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Natasha hummed to herself as she wiped and wiped and wiped down the desk, pretending not to notice his presence. 

"What are you doing in here? Where’s Pierce?" he snarled, fists clenching and unclenching ever so slowly. 

Pausing her work, Natasha faced him. She appeared demure, clutching her cloth and bottle to her chest, eyes wide and mouth hanging open ever so slightly. 

She let loose a long stream of Russian, gesturing to the cart, waving the cloth and bottle. The woman’s face she’s wearing contorted with barely suppressed fear. Rumlow strode forward. There was a bounce to his walk that Steve recognised and dead pooled in his stomach. One, two, three, four strides and the man was before her, swelling to his full height. 

Smack.

Natasha hit the deck. Her hand groped for her chin, eyes wide and dazed as she cowered on the floor at Rumlow’s feet. A strangled yelp and Steve was on his feet: shield at the ready. He stood, stooped, fists clenched, ready to storm the building. 

"Niet. Niet," she breathed in his ear, her voice quavering, watery with the force of the blow.

It was both a plea and a warning. On shaking legs, he forced himself to sit back down.

"Get out before I make you," sneered Rumlow, still standing over her prone body.

Natasha staggered upwards, pulling herself up by the desk. She wasted no time and gathered the cleaning supplies before speeding from the room. Rumlow watched her go, a hungry look slashed into his features.

"Natasha, Nat, are you okay? Do you have the drive?" Steve queried, urgent and desperate.

The comm was silent but for the cart's rolling squeaks and the quick hush and shush of her breath. After a moment she said, "I have it. I'm fine." and that was it. She sounded terse and clipped.

Half an hour later they were debriefing in a lay-by far enough away from HQ to not draw suspicion. The mesh masks lay crumpled and glowing on their duffles, wigs discarded. Across Natasha's jaw, there was a rapidly darkening bruise that she probed gingerly with her fingertips. Guilt gnawed at Steve's very bones.

"Put away those puppy dog eyes, Rogers," she chided, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I've had a lot worse from a lot less."

"Can confirm! First time we met, I shot her in the shoulder!" chipped in Clint brightly from the driver's seat.

Natasha gestured as if to say, 'told you so' and settled back in her seat, moving her jaw this way and that to check nothing was out of place. It was only as she moved to run a hand through her hair that Steve noticed them. Without her bracelet, they were on full display. Red rings of scar upon scar upon scar encircled her left wrist like angry vipers. The skin there had been mangled almost beyond recognition. She found his horrified eyes and gave her head a tiny shake.

"Not today, Steve," she said softly, a gentle hand reaching out and giving his arm a squeeze. 

It was a long drive back to Brooklyn. They drove to avoid the tolls as best they could but with the rush hour traffic, their travel time kept increasing. Clint insisted on driving the whole way, said he was too jittery to just sit idly. 

As the countryside slid past and an easy silence, broken only by the radio, settled around them, Steve found himself thinking about scars. His eyes kept on wandering back to Natasha and her scarred wrist even after she’d changed from the cleaner’s uniform to an oversized sweater and a pair of soft, grey sweatpants. 

Along with all his numerous illnesses and health complaints, his scars had disappeared with the serum too. His skin was like virgin snow. Hell, other than the hair on his head he'd been as hairless as a baby when he came out of that chamber but at least that grew back. It didn't matter what happened to him, he didn't scar. He didn't scar after being impaled on a ragged pipe somewhere just outside of Austria, he didn't scar from bullet wounds, he didn't scar from taking a knife to the thigh. It didn't matter the wound, his skin knitted together smooth and new every time.

Sometimes, he missed it. He missed being able to track all his fights and accidents, the proof of who he'd been before the serum and since. 

Bucky had remarked on it too. When was it? Where had they been? Italy, maybe? Not that long after they started bringing down those Hydra bases anyway. They'd been changing out of sodden clothes when he grabbed him by the shoulders with an almost feral look in his eye, turning him this way and that, examining him in the tent's dim light. 

"Where are they?" he'd demanded, and Steve had to explain that that was just how he was now. Bucky’s fingers had hovered, searing, trembling, over his stomach, over the spot where his largest and most violent looking scar had vanished.

Weirdly, that was the one he missed the most. He’d been sixteen years old. Slit from belly to sternum while vaulting a fence and trying to get away from some asshole with a shiv, he'd miscalculated his daring leap and almost bled out on the pavement. Bucky barely left his side the whole time he was laid up in bed. But that was nothing new. Steve couldn't count the number of times he'd watched Bucky sit by his bedside when he thought he was asleep during some illness or another. He'd memorised every inch of his face in those moments, every line, every plane, every tic, until he knew Bucky's face better than his own.

During those first days, when he was still feverish from the blood loss and pain meds, Bucky had knelt by his bedside muttering prayers to a God he didn't believe in so that Steve would make it through. Just one more miracle and he'd go back to church, he'd beseech. He’d clutched his pa’s old rosary so hard you’d have thought he was some repentant sinner begging forgiveness. Once it became clear he'd be fine, however, Bucky went back to cussing him out for being so 'damned stupid'. Steve had never  _ liked  _ worrying his friend, but at the same time, there was a tiny, dark voiced part of him that relished it.

These thoughts occupied him all the way from Baltimore to the New Jersey Turnpike. It took Natasha shaking his arm and asking for cash for the toll to bring him back from his reverie. Yet soon enough the familiar sights and sounds of Brooklyn were all around them. It was almost 11 pm and Steve wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and for the day to be done. 

"Thanks, man," he mumbled when they pulled up outside his apartment building. "Can’t tell you how much I appreciate today."

Clint waved him off with a shrug of the shoulder and a half-stifled yawn. Steve shot Natasha an expectant look, wasn’t she getting out with him?

"No offence, Steve, as much as I like my little foldout cot situation, after today I’d rather sleep in a real bed," she said. Her eyes were heavy and she seemed to be trying to lose herself in her sweater folds. 

Steve huffed a laugh.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" She inclined her head, the barest hint of a smile flitting across her lips.

"Bright ‘n’ early. Try and get some sleep, okay?"

"I can only try. Night, Clint!"

From the driver’s seat, Clint threw out a two-fingered salute by way of a goodbye. Stiff limbed and awkward, Steve clambered from the van, hulking his duffle over his shoulder. The two waved at him once more. The last thing he saw of them before they drove away was their soft shared smile and Clint reaching out to brush the tip of his finger along Natasha’s bruised jaw. It clearly wasn’t something he was supposed to see.

There was a distinct chill to the apartment when he opened his door. Even though they’d only been gone a day, it felt uninhabited, desolate, lonely. Casting off his bag and jacket, Steve trudged, heavy-footed towards his bedroom but halfway there, he felt an overwhelming wave of loneliness. As he was changing, the apartment’s silence bore down on him, constricting and oppressive, and despite its diminutive size, it now felt gargantuan and achingly empty. He hadn’t realised how much life Natasha had brought to the space and he was acutely aware of being completely alone for the first time in months.

Steve collapsed into bed, the mattress threatening to swallow him whole. He tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable but after 45 minutes called it quits and did what he’d done almost every night for the past year: gathered up his bedding and curled up on the floor next to the wall.

As ever, his sleep was restless and filled with nightmares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there we have it folks! They've only gone and done it. Answers on a postcard to what you think they'll find buried in the archives! 
> 
> And if any of you are interested in knowing more about what happened in the aftermath of Steve slicing himself open on the fence, then you can read all about that [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537430)!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's read along so far. All your comments and kudos etc mean the world. <3


	5. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Romanoff? Tell me something; at approximately what speed did I crash into the ice?"_
> 
> _His eyes didn’t leave the screen, but he felt Natasha’s eyes searching him, analysing his face for clues._
> 
> _"Some approximations claimed it could have been as much as 500mph. More conservative guesses said closer to 400," she said, voice even, flat. It was the voice of the Widow._
> 
> _Steve tasted iron in the back of his throat. He pulled up Google and began a frantic search._
> 
> With the entire Hydra archive at their disposal, Steve and his team begin searching for long buried clues.

Steve woke with a jolt at precisely 5:30 AM just as he had done every morning for the past year. The weak, grey light of morning threaded its way through the blinds and cast itself across his face. He squinted, shading his eyes with a hand for a moment before clambering to his feet. His limbs were leaden and he felt foggy and far away. 

It was a feeling he knew well, and the only way to clear his mind was to run. 

The city was never truly quiet, but in the early hours, there was a certain calmness in its familiar buzz. He pounded the sidewalk, zigzagging through the Brooklyn streets. Fruit sellers with the same thick accents of his childhood yelled out to one another as they set up their stalls, pallets crashed together, and the raw smell of grass and earth was in the air. Winding his way down to Prospect Park, Steve loved to snake his way along the wide boulevard paths under the tall, leafy trees. Here, there would be other runners; wee old men shuffling along in tank tops and too short shorts, women with high ponytails that swung as they ran, and bear-like men whose skinny legs didn’t match their broad chests. 

In the moments where their eyes locked together, there was a camaraderie, a secret nod, a smile that said, ‘I see you’. Sometimes, he even tried to slow down his pace to match theirs, but, more often than not, he went flat out until his legs ached, his lungs burned and the fog cleared enough for the euphoria to set in. He would run and run and run, the sidewalk falling away beneath him. The miles clocked up and up until he felt steady enough to face the day. Then, he would work his way back to East Williamsburg and his apartment. 

It had just gone eight-thirty. Steve climbed the stairs, now firmly rooted back in his body. His chest heaved, dragging unwilling air into his lungs. In this post-run bliss, he didn’t think of much; coffee and maybe a bagel at most. He almost forgot himself. Captain America didn’t exist in those moments. He was barely even Steve Rogers. 

By the time 9 AM rolled around, he was showered, dressed and was just about to put his breakfast together when he heard a series of heavy thuds on his front door. 

"Hey! Open up!"

"We brought breakfast and a present!"

Natasha. Clint. They sounded bright, excited, and when Steve opened the door he was met with two very happy faces. Clint was front and centre in a coffee-stained T-shirt and tattered jeans, precariously balancing a cardboard tray of coffees and a huge box of doughnuts. Natasha was at his shoulder brandishing a large cardboard box that clanked as she shot into the apartment. She wore a pair of high-waisted, red plaid pants and an ‘I Heart NYC’ crop top that looked like she’d cut it to length herself. The bruise on her jaw stood out, stark and black against her pale skin. It had blossomed overnight and had crept up her cheek. 

A loud bark alerted him to a certain canine presence and pulled him away from Natasha’s injury. Lucky, the one-eyed labrador, was at their heels, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

"What’s all this?" Steve questioned, reeling, taken aback. Their enthusiasm was infectious and he broke into a wide grin.

They bounded into his kitchen: the box was thrown onto the counter, clattering, the doughnuts dumped with a soft thump, and the coffee jostled, spilling out into the plastic lids. Natasha flashed him a smile and waved him over to where she stood next to the box.

"I felt bad for breaking your mug the other day so we found replacements," explained Clint.

"And I felt bad that we didn’t get our doughnuts yesterday," Natasha added, twirling a stray piece of hair back into her messy bun. 

"Did you say  _ replacements _ ?" Steve asked, ambling over to Natasha. 

"What can I say, Cap? I like to go above and beyond," Clint quipped, rootling through Steve’s breadbin and producing half a pack of bagels wrapped in a paper bag. Lucky tried to lunge for the food but, he fended him off with an affectionate swat.

At the very top of the pile was indeed a replica of the mug Clint had broken. He picked it up gingerly and traced a light finger across the familiar panels, a smile tugging up one side of his mouth. 

"Did you know that since The Incident there’s been a drastic increase in the amount of merch with our faces on it?" Natasha told him, handing over a black mug.

It was a decent size, heavy and with a thick bottom. On one side was the Black Widow insignia, a bold red against the black, and on the other was a comic book-esque drawing of Natasha. She was shown looking over one shoulder, a sultry look in her eye as she cocked her gun towards the viewer. 

"I don’t think I can even get myself into the position!" she laughed, twisting herself in an attempt to replicate the look. "Plus, my ass has never looked like that. Ever. In my entire life."

"It’s not the most accurate representation of you out there, I’ll say that much and leave it at that," Steve laughed. Natasha sniggered and punched his arm. 

There were six in total, one for each of the Avengers, each featuring a comic book rendering of them and an insignia to match. Tony’s was red with a pale blue arc reactor, Clint’s was pale purple with a dark plum arrow fletching, Thor’s had red too but with a silver Mjolnir, and Steve’s featured his shield against a deep navy-blue background. 

"We all look so mean," complained Clint, holding up his mug to his face and pulling the same pouty, brooding expression as his drawn counterpart. 

Steve was inclined to agree. The face the artist had given him was all harsh lines, his mouth a hard slash and his eyes cold. Was that how people saw him? Was that how they had always seen him?

"Here, we need you sharp today, Cap." Natasha’s hand was on his arm and she proffered him a plate with a doughnut that looked like his shield. He met her gaze and she smiled that Natasha smile, one side of her mouth hitching, eyes soft and wide. "We have a lot of work to do."

It was a gold mine and minefield. Thanks to a huge drive to digitise all of SHIELD’s records between 2000 and ’04 they had access to everything. For every potential lead or hanging thread, there were 30 or more invoices for printer toner and stationary. All crammed into Steve’s living room, they worked slowly, methodically, sifting through the decades and countless redactions. 

Steve began at the beginning. For better or worse, this life of his had started in Azzano with Bucky. Perhaps there was something in the mission reports that would shed some light. It took Steve an hour to find the relevant files and a further two to find the uncensored versions. Hunched over the cramped computer screen looking at his own handwriting the déjà vu slammed into him like a truck. He remembered writing these, listing the names of the men he brought home and detailing the ins and outs of breaking into the base. It was all there. Even the coffee stain.

Bucky had come into his barracks, bolshy and full of energy. Just cleared for active duty again, he bounced up onto Steve’s desk and upended his coffee mug all over his report. He’d told him to leave it, to come and have a drink of something stronger. He’d punched his arm a little too hard and there was a wildness in his eyes he didn’t like. So, he’d agreed. 

Setting aside his account of the Azanno mission, Steve pulled up Bucky’s medical examinations. There didn’t seem to be much out of the ordinary that Steve could see. For all intents and purposes, he was in peak physical condition despite having been kept as a prisoner on low rations for several weeks. ‘ _ Apart from a few minor abrasions and bruising to the face, Sergeant Barnes is free from injury’ _ it read. This only struck Steve as odd once he began parsing through the medical exams for the rest of the Commandos. Malnutrition, infections, and poorly healing bones were among the most common complaints. But Bucky? Bucky was fine. Better than fine, even.

With slow mounting horror, Steve realised for the first time what had gone on in Arnim Zola’s experimentation rooms. The bullet wounds, the scrapes, and bruises, they all healed so much faster than the others’. At the time he’d dismissed it. Bucky had a strong immune system. He healed quick. It was normal. But, he’d been comparing him to his pre-serum body, when everybody and their cat had healed quicker than he did. 

Erskine had been frank with him about Schmidt’s desire for the serum. Who was to say he stopped his experiments? Why not perfect it with a steady supply of men with nowhere else to go? A tremor ran down Steve’s left arm. The searing pain of the serum was a phantom haunting his veins. He could only imagine what that imperfect poison had felt like. 

"Romanoff? Tell me something; at approximately what speed did I crash into the ice?"

His eyes didn’t leave the screen, but he felt Natasha’s eyes searching him, analysing his face for clues.

"Some approximations claimed it could have been as much as 500mph. More conservative guesses said closer to 400," she said, voice even, flat. It was the voice of the Widow.

Steve tasted iron in the back of his throat. He pulled up Google and began a frantic search. How high were the Alps? What was the body’s terminal velocity? What’s the highest recorded survived free fall?

Hot, quivering panic rose up from the hollows of Steve’s chest. With a serum enhanced body, Bucky really could have survived that fall. Alive. Living, breathing. Out there. Somewhere. A thread unbroken.

He’d never actually allowed himself to consider it was a real possibility. But this, this changed everything.

Jittering, vision narrow, Steve went back to his files. Bottomless eyes bored into him but he paid his silent companions no mind. File after file, report after report, he built a new picture of his past. It was only now that he saw the improved stamina, the reflexes honed to a razor-sharp precision, the way he’d held his own during training exercises. Had he truly been so blinded by his own powers, his own importance, that he’d taken his friend for granted? Too many superficial questions with superficial answers. Why hadn’t he pushed further, delved deeper? The answers to these questions sat bitter in his mouth, thick and fibrous. 

Everything has been there; Peggy in her red dress, dark eyes on fire; Hydra bases; newsreels; strategy meetings in smoke-filled basement rooms in London. God, he was selfish. Their shifted paradigm hadn’t seemed like such a big deal, but now, Steve wondered at how well he’d truly known his friend by the end.

At last, he opened the file for the Schnellzug EB912 mission. The train, the snow, the frigid temperatures, Bucky falling and falling and falling. Over and over in his mind. Steve clenched his fists, trying to rid himself of the vision. But Bucky kept on falling, always just out of reach. He took a long, measured breath in through his nose and let it out in as slow and as controlled a manner as he could manage. It shook, bending under the weight of his guilt. 

The moment passed. Steve continued. At the top of the page there were several notes written in a precise hand. ‘ _ Amended, Aug. 1949 _ ’, ‘ _ Not for public view _ ’. Below the proposed mission details was a line that made his stomach drop out. 

_ ‘Sergeant J. B. Barnes  _ ~~_ K _ ~~ _ MIA.’ _

Not Killed in Action.  _ Not  _ designated dead. Missing in Action. Designated  _ missing _ . Steve traced the courser over the blacked-out letter but the ink was faded and he could just make out the ‘K’. Whoever had done this had started to say he was dead, but then, changed their mind? Or had it been ordained from above? Someone with more information, someone holding a knife above this person’s neck? 

Steve sighed and threw his eyes to the ceiling. The weight that normally sat across his shoulders seemed to triple. He was tired. He wished he knew all the answers, or at least could find them with a modicum of ease. He wanted ease. He wanted simplicity. But that was not his lot in life. Bucky had called him Prometheus once, the great Titan chained to a mountainside and cursed to have his liver pecked out by eagles each and every day for daring to do the right thing and gifting humans with sacred fire. Yeah, he thought, he knew a little of what that was like. 

"Coffee?" Bleary-eyed, Steve met Clint’s gaze. He held out the replacement comic mug. Filled to the brim and threatening to overflow, it smelt bitter and deliciously strong. It was a welcome distraction. "Tasha is making food if you want some?"

"Please, I could use the break," he admitted, shoving the laptop aside and taking the coffee. 

Clint flopped down onto the sofa next to him, pulling Lucky up onto his lap. It wasn’t really big enough for them but he settled in next to him and guzzled his coffee. The dog sprawled out over the two of them and gave Steve’s palm a lazy lick. Steve sipped from his mug and observed the archer with interest. 

Clint had an open face, a reactive face, that showed every flickering thought and emotion but, he considered, this wasn’t the face he wore on jobs. He had the capacity to shut down, to neutralise himself, to wipe himself clean and mould himself into whoever he needed to be. Natasha had these same gifts, but with her, you could never really be sure what was real and what was what she wanted you to see. It was much more straightforward with Clint.

"How long have you known each other? Natasha and you?" ventured Steve, wanting to fill the silence. Not that it was awkward, he just craved a distraction from the pestering thoughts buzzing around the edges of his mind. 

Head lolling on the back of the sofa, Clint looked over at him, eyebrow cocked as he adjusted his hearing aid.

"Must be going on five years or so," he mused. "Met in Budapest. Ever been?"

"Na, my travels haven’t extended that far yet."

"Ach, you should go. We’ll take you one day, show you all the sights."

"What sights? Like the alley where you shot me?" Natasha appeared in the doorway holding a plate piled high with grilled cheese sandwiches. Humour glittered in her green eyes as she glanced over at Clint who stuck her tongue out at her. 

"I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I? In my defence, I was doing  _ my job _ ," he insisted, making a face. 

"That’s what they all say," she shot back.

"Dunno, I reckon I’d shoot you for less than that," Steve offered, plastering his most wide-eyed and innocent look over his face.

Natasha turned, scandalised and mouth hanging open but it quickly melted into laughter and she pelted him with a scrap of her sandwich crust. 

"I resent that! I’ve been nothing but a delight the whole time I’ve been here," she said, pointing an accusatory finger.

"Well, clean your dirty dishes once in a while and maybe I’ll reconsider," he replied, stifling the laugh that bubbled up behind his coffee mug. 

"See, Tasha, you just have a face that says ‘Shoot Me’. I’ve been telling you this for years," Clint interjected around a mouthful of grilled cheese. "Vindication, my friend, vindication."

Steve snorted at Clint’s smug face. The redhead spluttered and shot them a dark look. 

"Fuck you. Next time you’re hungry, make your own damn food." She pouted, bottom lip jutting out in the most ridiculous manner.

They were silent for beat before laughter burst forth. It was raucous, total-body shaking laughter. Steve threw his head back, letting it rock through him. His belly hurt, he could barely snatch a breath and slow, fat tears leaked down his cheeks. It was a relief. He felt light, like the usual weight that hung around his neck was, for only a moment, no longer there.

Their laughter subsided after a moment but Steve had to admit, it felt good. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d laughed so freely and openly. Was this the first time since waking up? And if it was, then when had it been before then? 1945? Well, that was a sobering thought. 

"I need to get out more," he thought. "Live a little."

Once all the food was consumed, they went back to their research, but Steve found that his heart was no longer in his task. 

He sat for a while and watched Clint and Natasha work. But gradually, he became aware of a slow, gnawing sensation in the back of his mind, like a fly buzzing in his ear. It grew louder, more persistent and eventually, he called it quits.

Steve shrugged out of his apartment, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his new blue bomber jacket, a cap pulled low over his eyes. It was still warm. The air smelt of iron, earth and hot tarmac, there was rain coming. 

The day's discoveries tumbled through his mind, and even though he tried to sort through them all, it felt like he was looking at tangled wires with no clue where the beginning or end was. 

His pace was brisk, and in almost no time at all he’d walked the three blocks to the nearest bodega. It was a riot of colour and sharp, pulsing music filled the store. Steve made a show of perusing the shelves, considering the price of Milk Duds and Doritos, before picking up a pair of aviators from the rack next to the counter. An ashy grey cat with one eye and a tattered ear lolled next to the cash register. It raised a lazy head when he approached, turning an appraising amber eye upon him. He gave it a gentle scratch behind the ears and it nuzzled his palm. He could feel the deep vibrations of its rolling purr, like a tiny motor. 

He bought the sunglasses and a pack of smokes. It was a brand name he recognised from back in the day. Their favourite brand had long since been discontinued. It was a shame, it would have been nice to have it as a toast to what had once been.

Once he had everything he needed, he put on the aviators and gave the ashy grey cat another quick stroke before making his way back out onto the street. With the sunglasses he suddenly felt invisible. He’d always scoffed at the sunglasses disguise, scorned it even, but he thought he understood it a little bit now. There was a sense of anonymity that came with them and with his cap pulled so low, he could maybe even pass for a regular joe. 

Armed with his disguise the walk back to his apartment was much more leisurely now that the risk of being recognised was so much lower. He took his time and made a point of taking in the neighbourhood and the people that inhabited it. In many ways, it felt as though very little had changed around Brooklyn. The same big personalities were everywhere, except the clothes were different and they shouted their stories down mobile phones rather than across alleyways and on street corners.

The building was quiet when he returned, as was his apartment.

"Clint had to go and feed Lucky," Natasha said, answering Steve's questioning glance when he appeared in the living room doorway.

With a shurg, he brushed past the redhead and threw open the sash window that led to the fire escape. Really, he was too big to be pushing himself through a window like this, but he did it anyway and positioned himself with his back against the railing. City sounds washed over him; traffic, raised voices, the hum of city-wide A/C units. The cigarette packet was jammed in his jeans pocket and it took some manoeuvring to dig them out. Silently, he cursed this 21st-century trend for slim-cut tailoring.

"Since when does Captain America smoke?" prodded Natasha, following him out and perching on the window sill, green eyes taking in the scene before her.

Steve shrugged, lit a cigarette and took a long, sullen draw. Heat smouldered in his lungs. The rush wasn't the same. It prickled at his edges but there was no overwhelming rush of relief. He was disappointed but he didn't know why he had expected anything else. If alcohol didn't work, then why would nicotine. But, he reasoned, eyeing the glowing ember, the motions of it all, the ritual, had calmed him.

"You know, I actually had my first smoke at 9," said Steve, blowing smoke over his shoulder into the cityscape and offering the cigarette to Natasha. She took it, taking a shallow drag. "Doctor's orders - said it would help with the asthma. Of course, now, that was apparently all bullshit. Like everything else.

“Things were supposed to go a helluva lot different, you know? We were going to travel, me ‘n’ Bucky, see Europe when it wasn’t a warzone,” he sneered, feeling twisted and rotten inside.

The violence in his voice surprised him. Natasha handed him back the cigarette, wary now, guarded. She leaned away from him, hunched forward, eyes flickering over him. Steve took another long draw and shook his head. Natasha just watched him, the lines of her body tight and coiled. On any other night he might have felt bad for dumping his baggage at her feet but the long ignored anger was thick in his blood, burning like acid in his veins. 

"Was everything for nothing?" 

"Steve, don't say that-"

"Why? Why not? They're still here, they're still thriving even after all those men died, sacrificed themselves," he spat. Glowering, he took several more puffs before adding, "I tried to blow myself up and it still wasn't enough. Some fucking cause."

It was like the dam holding back his anger had broken. It spilt out, hot and heavy, searing his throat and stinging his eyes. He held the cigarette upright and watched the ash eat away at the paper and tobacco for a moment before flicking it over the fire escape to the street down below. It cartwheeled through the air, spitting embers, and dropped almost instantly out of sight.

"I'm tired, Nat, so goddamn tired," he moaned, letting his head fall back against the crossbar. "We were supposed to have won. We were supposed to be better."

His anger dissipated as quickly as it had formed, leaving behind the rawness he had fought so hard to conceal. Natasha pushed off the window sill and jostled in next to him. Her shoulder pressed warm and solid next to his and their knees knocked gently together, filling the cramped space. 

"Nat? Can I ask you something?" 

"Of course."

"Why are you helping me?"

Natasha considered this for a moment, head cocked as she chewed her bottom lip. Then she turned to face him and said, "You're one of the very few people who has never judged me on my past. Not many people give me that courtesy."

And as they sat there, crammed together in Steve’s too small fire escape, he realised he liked Natasha for the very same reason she just had given for helping him. In the few months they had known each other, Natasha had never once looked at him like he was the guy from the posters or the baseball cards or the newsreels. He got to be Steve Rogers. Just Steve. The guy from Brooklyn.

Natasha looped her arm through his. He started at the unexpected touch, the closeness. But he relaxed quickly, leaning against her. 

"Plus,” she added with a sly smile. “You're the most interesting nonagenarian I know."

Steve huffed. It wasn't quite a laugh but it was close enough. The raw ache lessened.

"What can I say, you looked like you needed a few more friends - less likely to get shot that way," he teased, and Natasha elbowed him in the ribs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting into the meat of it now folks! This is up there are one of my most favourite chapters of this whole shebang so I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> Thank you as ever to everyone reading along. <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com)!


	6. The Diplomat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Can I ask you a question, Captain Rogers?" asked Novak leaning across the table and fixing Steve with such an intense look he was taken aback._
> 
> _"Uh, sure." He gestured towards the man, welcoming his question, then hooked his thumbs back into his belt loops, fingertips pressed firmly against his hips._
> 
> _"Do you never think about retiring? Of putting this life behind you?" The question was posed without malice. Novak cocked his head to the side, dark eyes searching Steve’s face with the same intensity he had come to expect from Natasha._
> 
> _"Now why would I do that?" he quipped, turning away from the diplomat and laughing stiffly. Once his back was turned, he pressed his lips together and let his brow fall back into a frown. The comm in his ear was conspicuously silent._
> 
> || Steve is drafted in to protect a Sasha Novak, a Sokovian Diplomat, but things never quite go as planned.

After that first day and the flurry of new evidence and leads, their search pulled up dead end after dead end. Every time Steve thought he was getting close to something, it turned cold. He took meticulous notes on everything he found just in case there was even the slightest chance it could be relevant. Natasha did the same, but, Steve suspected, this was more so that when they eventually unleashed this Pandora’s box upon the world, they would have a solid case that stated they had good reason to keep it to themselves for so long. 

There had been a lull in his missions with the STRIKE Team too. This suited him. He wanted to pour all his energy into sifting through documents, building connections and worrying at the tight knot of leads until he found the thread that led him to Bucky. Because, god damn it, he was going to find Bucky even if it killed him. 

Most days it was just him and Natasha, but sometimes Clint joined them, and on very rare occasions, Natasha had to go on her own missions, leaving Steve alone in his apartment. These days were the worst. His attention drifted and he became aware of the hulking silence that filled the apartment. 

And it was during one of these rare occasions that he received a call from Nick Fury, summoning him to D.C. for a mission. 

He was on his knees in the bathroom, up to his elbows in his bathtub with the stink of bleach scorching his nose when it rang. In truth, he didn't really need to be cleaning his bathtub for the third time that week. He'd done it the day before, but it was a welcome distraction from the fact that Natasha was gone and he'd received a parcel. Neither of these things was really enough to warrant this kind of reaction, but there he was all the same. 

It was the parcel he was most preoccupied with. When he had met with Becca all those months ago, she had promised him photographs and Bucky’s old personal effects; everything that they didn't want the officials to have. It seemed like she had finally made good on her promise and now there was a box sitting in his hallway mocking him. 

He had opened it but only managed to look through it for a minute before closing the flaps back over and leaving it there. He’d take it through to the living room later and put it with the rest of their research, he told himself. It was research after all. Everything in the box was research. Natasha had to see it. They needed to do it together. 

Ignoring the tightness in his chest and the lump in his throat, Steve had been about to turn and leave, but an envelope with his name on it caught his eye. The paper was thick and heavy between his fingers. Becca’s looping handwriting was familiar and alien all at the same time. It looked just like Bucky’s. Kneeling there in his hallway, Steve pulled out her letter. It was short, to the point. 

_ ‘Dear Steve, _

_ I’m sorry that this took so long to get to you but you know how life goes. I’ve looked out some of Jamie’s old things; photos, journals, and a few other bits and pieces I thought you might like from when we were kids. This is all the stuff we didn’t let the officials get their paws on, and we’d like to keep it that way. Let them have their hero, our ma would say. _

_ Anyway, it’s all yours now. I’ve included his tags too, if there was anyone he’d have wanted to have them, it’d have been you. Give it all a good home, Rogers. _

_ All my love,  _

_ Becca’ _

Bucky’s tags slid from the envelope with a hiss. They were his spare set, Steve recalled. Somehow, somewhere he'd managed to sweet talk some administrator into giving him more. 

"Just in case!" Bucky had argued. "What if I go missing? Then the folks back home’ll have something to remember me by."

At the time, Steve hadn’t thought much of that. If anything he’d given him a punch and told him to stop being morbid. Of course, with hindsight, it was prophetic.

The tags themselves were ragged around the edges and spotty with age but all his information was there. Name, date of birth, and the draft number he'd tried so hard to hide from him. 

Something surged inside Steve and heat rushed up his face, prickling his eyes. He gripped the tags in his palm and blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears from falling. But it was in vain. They slid silently down his face and fell in dark spots onto his t-shirt. 

He allowed himself these few moments before scrubbing the back of his hand across his eyes, slipping the chain around his neck and setting to work on the bathroom. The call from Fury came after about an hour of methodically scrubbing, wiping and rinsing every surface he could reach with the rag and bleach. 

"Rogers, you’re needed for a mission," Fury barked, voice flat and gravelly. "We have a Sokovian diplomat coming who needs the ‘star-spangled treatment’."

Steve could hear the air quotes and remained silent, in no mood for jokes made at his expense.

"Gear up and be at the Avengers’ helipad in an hour." And he hung up with a click. Fury wasn’t one for small talk. 

So that’s what he did. Barely even thinking, Steve got up, left his cleaning supplies behind and went to change. He made it to the Avengers’ Tower in 45 minutes. 

Work had barely ceased on the building since The Incident back in April. Stark had his people working around the clock to get it fit for purpose and they crawled around it like ants. Steve wore a brown leather jacket over his suit with his shield hidden away in a protective cover to stop people from recognising him. It didn’t work. Eyes followed him everywhere and the back of his neck prickled. 

Out of sight, protected beneath the layers of fabric and body armour were Bucky’s dog tags. He had thought about taking them off but he couldn’t do it. They were the first real, concrete connection Steve had to his friend. It was almost as if he could feel him again. 

New York shrank beneath him as he flew upwards in the elevator. From this height he could see all the progress being made. The wounds created by the Chitauri were healing and Grand Central Station had a roof once more. Gone were the dangling wires and broken girders. Everything had been patched up shiny and new. 

The elevator doors glided open with a gentle whirring, and JARVIS’ cool voice announced his presence. Maria Hill and Natasha Romanoff were huddled around the computer console, their faces blank and serious. Hill was impossible to read, but Steve was used to Natasha by now. She was focused, eyebrows knitted together, and her eyes darted over the computer screen in front of her as her lips moved silently, taking in the information on the screen. But simmering just below the surface was worry. It was there in the way her nostrils flared and the almost imperceptible twitch to her left eye. 

"Reporting for duty," said Steve with a curt salute when he came to a stop in front of them. 

"At ease," said Hill, barely glancing up from the computer screen. Blue light flickered across her face making her appear almost translucent. "Here are your mission parameters."

She handed him a slim packet of papers. 

"You've been assigned to Aleksander Novak’s protection detail while he is here in the United States. He is a Sokovian diplomat looking to broker a deal with the government that will prevent weapons trades. Currently, almost 60% of all weapons exports from the US are finding their way to Sokovia. Novak intends to change this," rattled off Hill in a monotone. She didn’t look at him, too intent on the screens. "Unfortunately for him, this means he has made some powerful enemies who would rather he be put down. Our job, while he’s here, is to make sure that doesn’t happen. Captain Rogers, you will be his primary liaison with a small team of agents while Agent Romanoff will provide back-up. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," said Steve, inclining his head and glancing at Natasha who gave him a small shrug.

Aleksander Novak, or Sasha as he insisted Steve call him, was young - and attractive in a doe-eyed kind of way. He had round autumnal brown eyes and wavy, dark brown hair that was set neatly with just enough product that it still had movement but didn’t fall out of place. He was tall, slim and well-manicured, but the suit he wore was cheap; it rustled with every step. He also wore too much cologne. Sandalwood and musk hung in a cloud around him and lingered in the air long after he’d moved away. It was so strong it made Steve’s eyes water. When Novak spoke, he measured each word carefully but was quick to smile and laugh, and when they were introduced, he had grasped Steve’s outstretched hand in both of his. The palms of his hands were smooth and warm, but he had the fingertips of a musician: rough and calloused. Steve liked him instantly.

Their afternoon was planned out to the very last toilet stop. After meeting at an airstrip just outside of central D.C., they drove to an industrial complex where Novak was to meet with the officials. He had insisted on a neutral setting, and this was about as neutral as it got. Everything was grey; even the people were grey, and anything that happened to not be grey was beige. 

The complex was a maze of buildings. They huddled together, like children crowded around a dead bird, all bent necked and whispering. The wind whipped around the buildings and pulled fallen leaves into vortexes that got tangled around their legs. 

Although his team assured him of the site’s safety, Steve didn’t like this location at all. There were too many hiding spots, too many roofs perfect for setting up a sniper rifle. But they insisted that everything was fine, that they’d used this location before, that they knew what to look out for. It was quickly becoming apparent that Steve wasn’t really the one leading this operation. He was just there for the good PR. So, he gritted his teeth and made the best of it.

The afternoon dragged on, and Steve was becoming impatient. Every single meeting had overrun, and he’d had to listen to politician after politician make excuses and false promises on how they were going to solve Sokovia’s problems. It didn’t seem to matter what Novak said, their deal was dead in the water before it was even brokered. They weren’t even going to  _ try _ to fix it. 

Technically he wasn’t sitting in on these meetings, but he was positioned in the room while the rest of the team patrolled the hallways. He kept by the window, always making sure to keep his body in front of the diplomat’s. Every so often Romanoff would pipe up in his ear. She was only supposed to use the comms for status reports but mostly she used it to chime in on the discussions that were making Steve grind his teeth into a fine powder. It was all he could do to stop himself from interjecting. He could see the network of money and influence that held up the system and it didn’t seem like there was anything in the world that could tear it down.

Novak, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered by any of it. Even when he was met with outright hostility, his outward facade of calm politeness didn’t falter, he just pressed on, still with the same mild smile plastered across his face. For some, it might have seemed phoney, but with him, his concern was genuine. 

"But you must understand, we are a small country. If civil war was to break out then the damage it could do would set us back decades," Novak stated to the stony-faced Senator seated across from him. In all his earnestness, he never came across as pleading, something Steve found admirable.

"I am well aware of the situation that’s brewing in Sokovia but frankly, Mr Novak, we cannot control the market," drawled the Senator as he inspected his fingernails. "The purchases you’ve highlighted to me here are all legal and there is nothing stopping private citizens from buying these weapons. What they then do with them is none of our concern."

Novak’s nostrils flared as he pressed his lips together into a tight line, but he inclined his head and said, "Of course, I understand."

The conversation didn’t go much further, and, soon enough, the Senator was ushered from the room. The diplomat deflated in his seat, his shoulders slumping. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. The two of them were alone.

"Well, that went about as well as I expected it would," he sighed, looking over to Steve. Although his face was drawn and his eyes were tight, when their eyes met, he softened. "I truly hoped that they would see sense here. Nevermind. Tomorrow is another day. Do I get the pleasure of your company again?"

"I believe so. I’m yours for the whole week."

This made him smile, and Steve found that he liked the way his mouth perked up at the corners and the slight cock of his left eyebrow. It unsettled him and thrilled him in equal measure. 

"Can I ask you a question, Captain Rogers?" asked Novak leaning across the table and fixing Steve with such an intense look he was taken aback.

"Uh, sure." He gestured towards the man, welcoming his question, then hooked his thumbs back into his belt loops, fingertips pressed firmly against his hips.

"Do you never think about retiring? Of putting this life behind you?" The question was posed without malice. Novak cocked his head to the side, dark eyes searching Steve’s face with the same intensity he had come to expect from Natasha.

"Now why would I do that?" he quipped, turning away from the diplomat and laughing stiffly. Once his back was turned, he pressed his lips together and let his brow fall back into a frown. The comm in his ear was conspicuously silent.

"No, I just wonder - you leave one war wanting to die only to enter another where everyone expects you live - I just wonder what that does to a person. You could have so much more."

Steve bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. His breath caught in his throat as his chest tightened. How many people had realised from the history books what his true motivation had been? How many had seen through the propaganda and peeled back layer upon layer of gloried veneer to see the cracks beneath? Too few. And in truth, he could barely do it himself, lest he fall into the abyss those cracks created.

"Forgive me. That was insensitive. Please, you do not have to answer," said Novak in a rush when the pause turned into a bloated silence. “It is so rare to meet a legend -”

"This life is all I know and it's what I'm good at, Sir," Steve cut in finally, voice strained and threatening to break.

"Don’t you want a simpler life?"

"I’m not sure I know what that is anymore."

"Perhaps you’re right. It does things to people, chews them up in ways that’s difficult for others to understand."

This caused Steve to turn back to face him. He was lounging in his chair now, legs stretched out, ankles crossed and hands clasped back behind his head. There was no question in what he had said. It was a quiet, simple statement that betrayed a deeper understanding. His face was open.

"You talk like you know."

"I do, in my own way. My country has not had an easy life. Revolutions are made with violence and in their aftermath things can get ugly." Novak sighed and stood. "I may be taking one step forward and two steps back here, but even like that you can make progress."

He smiled once more in Steve’s direction and held an arm out to beckon him towards the door.

"Come, let us talk of happier subjects. History tells me you're quite the artist, are you not? Perhaps that is your future, no?"

"I was. Once. I haven't - I don't - I wouldn't even know where to start now," replied Steve as the rest of his team fell into formation around them.

"It could be good for you, something familiar amongst the wildness of today."

"Hmm." 

Steve had considered picking up his paints and pencils again, but aside from a few doodles and quick sketches carelessly drawn in tatty notebooks, he hadn’t been able to face an artist’s pad. Some part of him feared what would be uncovered if he did.

"I would love to be the person to claim they had an original Rogers hanging in their apartment."

"Well, if I ever create something worth hanging, you’ll be the first to know."

This set him off laughing. 

They weaved their way through the maze of grey corridors down to the sidewalk where the car was waiting. Steve was on edge. The day felt too still and he craned his neck to try and get a better view of his surroundings. Natasha stood next to the car, holding the door open and ready for Novak.

Over on a nearby rooftop, a glimmer caught Steve’s eye as they moved from the building to the car. Whatever it was, it was too far to get a good look.

"Nat? You seeing this?" he murmured, touching a finger to his ear comm. She was still too far away to speak to comfortably. They kept moving in a tight formation, but Steve’s eyes were fixed on the glimmer.

"Yeah, I see it. What is it?"

But then, movement. Sun hit metal. The bottom dropped out of Steve’s stomach.

"Sniper! On the roof!" he yelled, throwing an arm across the diplomat’s shoulders and pulling him towards the car.

"Get Novak to the car now." Natasha was in his ear, biting and hard.

There was a whistling, a squelch, and a thump as Aleksander Novak fell to his knees. His eyes were glassy and his mouth slack. Blood spurted from a newly created chest wound and arced across the sidewalk. Dead.

"No! Man down! Man down!" Steve dropped to the ground, fingers pressing against the blossoming wound. Slick, hot blood smeared across his palms.

A whizz. 

White-hot pain.

His left shoulder pulsed.

The air left Steve’s lungs with a sharp whoosh. A deep gash split his shoulder where the bullet had grazed him. Blood stained his front. His own blood this time. Stars prickled his vision and the image swam. He swayed on the spot for only a second when Natasha cried in his ear:

"Steve! The sniper is on the move. Go! I’ll follow!"

Shaking off the pain and gritting his teeth, Steve took off at full tilt in the direction of the sniper. He was a silhouette against the bright blue sky, darting across the rooftops and leaping between the buildings. Arms pumping, he sped up and soon was drawing level with the assassin. The figure had made it to the ground. He was mere feet away. Steve grabbed his shield and launched it towards him with a yell. 

The man caught his shield. Steve stopped dead. A sharp clanging rippled through the air and the man cocked his head. In this pause, he finally got a good look at him. He was tall, broad-shouldered and dressed all in leather. Dark hair hung limp around his face, and a pair of steely eyes glared out at him from above a close-fitting black mask. It was like a muzzle. 

And his arm. His left arm. The hand gripping his shield. It was all metal: on his shoulder, a red, five-pointed star.

Time stretched out between them as Steve tried to process the fact this man had just caught his shield. No one had ever - not like that. But then it was flying back towards him, catching him full force in the chest and pushing him back at least three feet. 

The man took off at a sprint and Steve was hot on his heels. They weaved through the streets, glass-fronted buildings whizzing by in a blur. Steve put on a burst of speed from some unknown reserve and closed the gap between them. Lunging for his legs, he tackled the assassin to the ground. They fell in a tangle of limbs, the tarmac hard and unyielding.

A searing pain shot through Steve’s right shoulder on impact. Dark spots across his eyes threatened to blind him. There was a knife where only seconds before there had been none. 

A metal elbow caught his cheek. The two men tumbled over and over, trying to gain the upper hand, but they were an even match. Each time Steve managed to get on top, the assassin threw him off. His assailant wrenched the knife from his shoulder with a sharp twist. His vision went white and a guttural roar tore from his lips. 

The man was above him, knife poised. He scrabbled, hands falling against his chest and neck, trying to keep him at bay. The knife swung down. Steve caught the assassin’s arm with his own. The man snarled, panting with exertion. Dark grey eyes glared at him from above the brim of his black mask. 

He bucked his hips and rolled, shoving the man sideways. Unbalanced, the assassin fell away and Steve aimed a kick at his knife-wielding hand. Smack. It made contact. The knife skittered away. Out of reach. 

Before Steve could compose himself, the man lunged at him again. His fist rammed into his jaw. He could taste blood. 

They were a fury of fists and elbows and knees, trading ferocious blows. Each strike landed with lethal intent. Steve’s mind raced, trying to keep up with the man’s never-ending blows. He was strong. Much stronger than any man he had encountered before and seemed to anticipate his every move. 

Natasha was screaming in his ear, but he couldn’t process the words.

Thwack.

The man’s metal arm caught him full in the chest. He fell backwards. 

Smack.

His head caught on the concrete. Winded, he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. With him lying prone on the road, the man paused for only a second. In one fluid movement, he drew a gun from the holster strapped to his thigh and shot him in the leg.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots in quick succession. 

Steve’s body jerked. An animal roar and the air left him again. The man was now a blur. He stepped over him, grabbed him by the front of his suit and landed one final blow.

Then darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, _that_ happened. 
> 
> Until next time folks. Have a good week and love to all who've read so far! <3
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@martelldoran](martelldoran.tumblr.com)!


	7. Widow's Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"So, what do you need to tell me?" he asked. Even to his own ears, he sounded small. It was the voice of sickbeds past, of fevers, oppressively hot summer nights, frigid winters that burned his lungs, darkened rooms, and a head bent over clasped hands, murmuring prayers to a God they didn’t believe in._
> 
> ||Laid up in a grim D.C. hospital bed, Steve recovers from his encounter with the assassin. But, Natasha has something she needs to share.

"You really think it's him? Well, shit balls. You know you have to tell him . . . I know, I know, you don't owe people shit yada yada, I've heard all this before but he deserves to be working with all the information he can get."

The voice was tinny and far away, muffled.

"They’re just suspicions," said another voice. This one was soft, sullen but earnest.

"Yeah and we're just a couple of architects when we go to the Berkshires. The truth isn't everything to all people, but it is to Steve."

"Fine . . . fine, you win. I'll tell him.” 

Steve felt like he was underwater, slowly rising to the surface. Darkness swam around him and shimmered at the edges of his consciousness. 

"Tell me what?" His voice was thick, groggy with disuse and the light hurt his eyes as he began to resurface from the depths.

From the corner of his bare hospital room, Natasha and Clint looked over at him. Their faces were tight with hard-lined worry, and Natasha gripped her elbows so hard that her knuckles were white.

"Steve, you're awake," she breathed as she darted to his side, relief flooding her voice. "You had us worried. "

"Ach, I've had worse," he mumbled, struggling to an upright potion. An IV tugged at his arm, sharp pain shot through his shoulder and leg, and there was a throb at his temple. He’d be healed by tomorrow anyway, what did it matter.

"Well, uh, I gotta jet. See you guys back in New York. Glad you’re awake, Steve" said Clint, rocking back on his heels, his hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets. His eyes wandered the room, not daring to alight on Steve for more than a second. "Laters."

And he shot from the room before either Steve or Natasha could say another word.

"Real subtle, Clint," Natasha muttered. She rubbed her eyes, suddenly appearing very tired. There were dark, bruise-like shadows hanging under her eyes and she was pale, drawn close and reserved.

Steve leaned back into his pillows as Natasha perched on the edge of his bed, jostling his still healing leg. She offered a hushed apology as he sucked in air through his teeth. Whatever medication they’d given him still clouded his brain, he was tired and sore and confused. The sequence of events that led him to this bed, this room, was muddled. Shimmers, glimmers and gunshots. It didn’t make much sense.

"So, what do you need to tell me?" he asked. Even to his own ears, he sounded small. It was the voice of sickbeds past, of fevers, oppressively hot summer nights, frigid winters that burned his lungs, darkened rooms, and a head bent over clasped hands, murmuring prayers to a God they didn’t believe in.

He fixed his gaze on her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked instead. Steve shrugged and waved a heavy hand at his current predicament. He probably looked about as good as he felt. There wasn’t anything he could say.

“Okay, so,” Natasha sighed. She chewed her bottom lip and gave him a grave, wide eye-eyed look like she was reconsidering whatever it was she was about to tell him, but then she nodded. 

Steve waited.

"You may have heard that when I was a child, I was forced into the Red Room,” she began, hesitant and faltering. “It was a . . . ‘specialist’ division of the KGB designed to infiltrate anywhere and everywhere. The US, Europe, it didn’t matter. There were secrets to be mined, people to be killed and we were the ‘daggers hiding in the shadows’. The Black Widow Programme was deadly. But I was the best." Natasha paused, ducking her head, clearing her throat.

"Natasha? You don’t need to tell me this if you don’t want to."

"No, I know. But I owe it to you."

Steve frowned but nodded for her to continue. A visible shiver ran through her and she kept tugging on the black bracelet on her left wrist, exposing the red rings of scar tissue for a flash then hiding them again.

"You asked me, once, where my scars came from. Well, at night we were handcuffed to our bedposts. It was supposed to help us learn to be still while sleeping. If we had nightmares then that was just the price we paid. It was . . . not a lesson that came easily to me.

"We were trained by our handlers but, on three or four occasions, we had a ‘visitor’. They called him only ‘The American’. He was brutal. Never cruel - but he was efficient. We would fight out in the snow until we bled and our limbs gave out. Had a wicked shot too –" She broke off here, a half-smile twisting across her mouth as she dropped her eyes to her hands. She ran her index finger across her scars for just a moment before meeting his gaze once more. "Could hit a target the size of a bottle cap from more than a mile out. But he was more than that, he had this metal arm we had to dodge during training. If he caught you then there was no mercy and some didn’t get back up.

“He was a man with the devil in his eyes,” she continued. There was an eerie calm to the voice she spoke. Her words were hazy with distant memory and sharp with hyper focus. "He didn’t give much away, never gave any indication he remembered us from one visit to the next, but every so often there were flickers of something more,  _ someone _ more. It was like there was someone beneath the surface screaming to get out."

“Nat, what does this have to do with anything?” Steve asked. His voice still sounded horribly small. The words didn’t come easily either and he felt himself deflate into his pillows, eyebrows pulling together. It was a lot to take in. 

Her eyes glimmered. She swallowed and pushed off the bed, stalking towards the window. A dull sunset framed the grey skyline. Shoulders hunched, she hugged herself. Steve stayed silent. The throbbing at his temple had worsened. He felt light-headed. He could barely keep everything straight.

“If I’m right, then Hydra was in the Red Room. Hydra was the KGB. Hydra was . . .  _ me _ . ‘Cut off one head and two more will grow in its place,’ they told us.  _ We _ were the hydra, always growing, always multiplying.

“But more than that, the American from my childhood, the sniper from yesterday, the one responsible for all the assassinations I told you about: they’re the same. At first, I couldn’t know, but now I’m almost certain they are.” Her voice shook under the weight of her words. Steve didn’t know that he followed. “I wanted to be sure before telling you. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. It wouldn’t have been fair. But now it feels like keeping it to myself was unfair as well, so I can’t win.” She gave him a weak smile over her shoulder.

Natasha hung her head, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Steve.” Her voice cracked and she turned to face him. “It was Barnes. It was  _ Bucky _ .”

Reeling as if struck, Steve struggled to breathe, to connect the dots.

“What? How can you know for sure?” he rasped, mouth desperately dry.

“Seeing him yesterday, up close, and then . . . with the photographs Becca sent,” she said and dug out a dog-eared photo from her jacket pocket, holding it tightly in one hand. "I saw the box in your hallway when I went to pick up some of your things."

At this she gestured towards the army duffle sitting in the corner.

Without a word, Steve grasped for it, fingers thick and unwieldy. Natasha sat down on the hard plastic chair by his bedside and handed him the photograph. When he realised which one she’d picked up, it was no wonder she’d made the connection. He remembered that night; the smell of sweat, beer, and blood; the roar of the crowd, the grunts as punches connected with flesh. Boxing in all its primal glory.

There was very little resemblance to the Sergeant Barnes of the official photographs, no,  _ this  _ was all Bucky. Stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat, his arm was in the air, held up by a stripe shirted referee who was in mid call. His mouth hung open in a panting snarl, jaw jutting. Blood from a burst nose dripped down his chin onto his chest. And the eyes, god his eyes. Even though the image was grainy, Steve could see it. He really did have the devil in his eyes.

"There’s more." Natasha sounded raw. Had she ever been this exposed before? Steve supposed not, certainly not with him that’s for sure.

And so, she went on to explain how she had encountered him outside of the Red Room during a botched SHIELD mission outside of Odessa with a now-deceased Iranian scientist.

"There was no one else that could have made that shot," she said weakly.

Steve huffed, shaking his head and looking up at the blank ceiling above him.

Taut silence stretched out between them.

"So, the assassin that killed Novak, you think he’s the same man you met in the Red Room, who’s responsible for all those other assassinations, and you think that man is Bucky?" Steve questioned when his mind started catching up with all the information Natasha had presented to him.

She nodded and reached for his hand but he pulled away.

"Why didn’t you tell me all of this sooner?" His voice was broken glass. A roiling rage had started to build in his belly, climbing higher and higher with every shallow breath.

"I didn’t want to be wrong - I didn’t even want to be right. I just – I didn’t want to get you hurt," she said. She sat very still, coiled into a protective huddle but her eyes were fevered, searching his face for some clue to the inner workings of his mind.

"Whole lotta good that did me." His hands were shaking. 

"Steve -"

"You should leave," he said, voice clipped. He suddenly found he couldn’t stand the sight of her.

" _ No _ . I won’t."

"I don’t care. I don’t want to see you right now." Balling his sheets in his fists, Steve sucked in a long breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his surging emotions.

"Well, in that case, you’re shit outta luck,  _ pal _ . I’m not going anywhere," spat Natasha, resolutely not moving from her chair. She was glaring at him now, hot venom in her eyes. It was a look she’d never thrown his way before.

The silence that followed bristled with needle-sharp energy. They were like cats with their hackles up.

"I made a judgement call. I won’t try and defend it just because you don’t like the outcome," she hissed, eyes narrowed 

"I thought you were someone I could trust. But you just can’t stop with the lies, huh," Steve sneered, mouth curling.

Natasha baulked, face paling and eyes widening.

"I’ve been keeping secrets and telling other people’s lies my whole damn life." She spoke through gritted teeth, each word strained. "I thought I had all those lies straight, knew who they belonged to, but that’s been blown to dust.  _ Forgive me _ if all I wanted was something solid and true - for  _ once _ . You can hate me if you like. You can never trust me again, delete my number, bar me from your apartment, refuse to be on the same team. You can do all of that when this is over. But right now, I am all you’ve got."

“Just fuck off, Romanoff. I don’t care about your excuses,” Steve snarled. 

Natasha looked murderous. She swallowed and stood abruptly, nostrils flaring. Her chair fell backwards with a hollow clunk against the linoleum. 

“Fine. I’ll go. But while you’re stuck here, why don’t you use this time to get your head out of your ass. I might not have many friends, Rogers, but neither do you. Just think about that.”

She stormed from the room without a backwards glance, slamming the door behind her.

Slumping back into his pillows, the anger that had spiked within him dulled. He wasn’t really angry, not at Natasha at least. He was tired. He was shot up. He was frustrated.

With his drug-addled brain, the confusion of his entire situation, and Natasha’s revelation, his emotions had hardened into anger. Misdirected anger at that. He glared out the hospital window at the grey buildings beyond.

If what Natasha said was really true, then that had been Bucky. Bucky had shot him, stabbed him, beat him, and hadn’t even flinched. He had looked at him with hatred and ferocity. He hadn’t even known him.

It should be impossible, he mused, but given all he’d seen the last few months, he didn’t think anything was truly impossible anymore. The floating cars of the Stark Expo seemed trite and campy to him now.

"Fuck," sighed Steve, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and pinching the bridge of his nose. It stung. Staring at the grey speckled ceiling tiles, he came crashing down and a wave of prickly, hot guilt flooded over him.

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He let them trail miserably down his face and seep into his pillow. 

It took three days for Steve to heal fully. Bruises faded from black to blue to green to yellowy-brown in just a few hours. His wounded shoulder and leg knitted themselves back together within a day. It was hot and itchy and he could feel his muscles pulling and stitching and stretching. After that first day, all that was left of his injuries were a set of ugly purple marks which slowly faded to new, pale pink skin that was sore and tender to the touch. Once the third day rolled around, he was as good as new. 

He’d never liked the healing process. It put him on edge and there was little to distract his mind. At least before there had always been another march or mission. He had been able to walk it off or plan the next takedown of a Hydra base. This time around, however, he was confined to his D.C. hospital bed. There was a resolute radio silence from Natasha. She hadn’t got in touch with him since their fight. Not that Steve blamed her. He’d crossed a line. Several lines if he was truly being honest with himself.

He left the tiny television on, letting the news run in a depressing loop. Novak’s death was the headline. Questions were being raised. How had it happened? Who had done it? Why had Captain America and his team failed so spectacularly? They questioned his effectiveness, whether he was truly fit for modern-day duty. It aggravated him but he didn’t turn it off. It was self-flagellation. If he looked away, then he was even more culpable. So, he stared at it, dead-eyed, and ruminated on his sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve _almost_ has all the pieces. Let's hope him and Natasha can patch things up, eh.
> 
> I'm overflowing with all the love that's been thrown my way with this fic. I can't tell you all how much I appreciate it. We reached 100 kudos this week and lemme tell you, I about _died_ with happiness. So thank you one and all. <3
> 
> Until next week folks! 
> 
> As ever, you'll find me [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come yell at me.


	8. To the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Their eyes met across the room and she raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t smile. Her lips were pursed and Steve didn’t miss the way her nostrils flared as she looked at him._
> 
> _“You two have until I come back with the food to kiss and make up,” warned Clint in his most serious tone, gesturing between them before bustling from the room. It would almost be funny if the thought of being left alone with Natasha didn’t put Steve’s teeth on edge._
> 
> ||In the aftermath of their fight, Steve dreads seeing Natasha again but Clint conspires to set things right.

By the time he was climbing the stairs back up to his Brooklyn apartment, it felt like he had been away for a year. In reality, it had been less than five days. 

Fury had appeared at his bedside that morning like a spectre and demanded to know what had happened. Steve had given him just enough scraps to fend off the worst of his questions, but he couldn’t be sure it had been enough. Nick Fury was a man of few words and he rarely let his emotions show. That morning, however, had been that rare exception, and he had lived up to his name with several choice words being flung in Steve’s direction regarding the abject failure of his mission.

It had cut him. Fury strung up the questions about his capacity to serve above his head like knives ready to fall on him at a moment’s notice. One wrong move, he said, and he would end up back where he started: a glorified show pony only fit for stage shows and cringy educational movies. 

All this and more had plagued him the whole way home.

He paused at his front door and jangled his eyes, shifting from foot to foot. From inside he could hear his record player and voices bouncing back and forth. He frowned, he wasn’t expecting anyone. With a resigned sigh, he opened the door and was met with the smell of grilling meat.

“Steve! Good to see you, buddy.” Clint stuck his head into the hallway as soon as he heard him enter, body still very much in the living room. “How ya feeling?”

“Same eagles, new liver,” he muttered darkly. Clint’s face contracted in confusion but it cleared quickly to a goofy grin.

“Glad to hear it. Can’t have our favourite old man going down on us now. Ain’t that right Tasha.”

Clint had left him standing in the hall as he spoke. Steve dithered, unsure if he really wanted to face Natasha’s wrath. They hadn’t left on the best of terms and he didn’t know if she would accept his apology. When he wasn’t torturing himself over Sasha Novak, he had spent hours going over their argument, imagining scenario after scenario where he didn’t throw everything back in her face. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself and pushed through into his living room and stopped dead. 

His furniture had been pushed back. Natasha’s cot was nowhere to be seen and all their evidence and documentation was gone. All to make way for a table set for three. It was a cheap table, rough plastic on top with foldaway legs, but it was covered with a clean, starched, red gingham tablecloth. There was even a small bouquet of flowers in a green bottle and some candles to really set the mood.

He didn’t know what to say. His eyes roved over the scene laid out in front of him again and again, unable to get a handle on it. 

“What do you think?” asked Clint, bright and eager. 

“I don’t know what to say. What is all this?”

“Family dinner. Clearly. Keep up, old man.” Clint gestured to the clean button down he’d put on for the occasion and spoke as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Natasha was perched on his window sill, silent and appraising, a glass of red wine sat at her hip on the fire escape. She’d dressed up. Her hair was done in a soft curl and she wore a cream silk, cowl neck top and a dark, glossy red lipstick. Their eyes met across the room and she raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t smile. Her lips were pursed and Steve didn’t miss the way her nostrils flared as she looked at him. 

“You two have until I come back with the food to kiss and make up,” warned Clint in his most serious tone, gesturing between them before bustling from the room. It would almost be funny if the thought of being left alone with Natasha didn’t put Steve’s teeth on edge.

Clattering and curses soon reached them from the kitchen. 

Steve stuffed his hands into his pockets and scuffed his toe across the carpet.

“This was Clint’s idea, by the way. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be here.” Natasha’s tone was stiff and ironclad as she took a very pointed sip of wine and refused to look at him.

“Natasha, I’m  _ sorry _ ,” Steve implored, taking a few hesitant steps towards her. The words came in a rush, like he was expecting her to cut him off at any second. She inspected her nails and clenched her jaw. “I shouldn’t have snapped like I did, not after everything you’ve done for me.” 

He waited to see if she would say anything. She did not.

“You were right, I don’t have many friends,” he pressed, throat constricting. He sounded strangled. “I have you. That’s it. Clint’s only here out of loyalty to you. I know that.”

“That’s not true. Clint’s here for you as much as me,” mumbled Natasha. Her arms were wrapped tight around her middle as she glanced at him. Some of the ice in her eyes had thawed.

“Please don’t think I don’t know what you’re risking by doing this.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed and she looked like she was about to contradict him but then her expression cleared and she nodded. 

“I understand why you didn’t tell me about your suspicions. I wasn’t being fair,” Steve continued and offered her a contrite smile. 

“Damn right you weren’t,” she sighed and pushed off the window sill towards him. “But, and I hate myself for saying this, I understand  _ why _ you acted like an insufferable prick. Not that that excuses you, but I do understand.”

She stopped in front of him and looked up. Steve felt close to crumpling. Forlorn and worn out, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst across his vision. There was a tightness in his chest that just wouldn’t give up. A firm grip on his wrists pulled his hands away and down to his sides. He tried to resist but, after a second, he gave in.

“Stop. Don’t do this,” said Natasha, voice soft and insistent. “You’re forgiven. Friends fight, remember?”

“Not usually about the fate of the world.” Steve let out a bark of humourless laughter and shook his head, throwing his eyes around the room so he didn’t have to meet the intensity of Natasha’s gaze.

“Well, we’re no ordinary friends.” Natasha shrugged one shoulder and smiled her coy, one-sided smile. “Look, let’s just enjoy tonight. When was the last time any of us had a real night off?”

She had a point. He hadn’t taken any real time off in months. Any time that wasn’t spent on missions was spent chasing leads, and any time that wasn’t spent chasing leads was spent sleeping. To have a night totally apart from all that could be nice. But guilt niggled at the back of his mind. Newsreels, Fury’s threats, and Novak’s face flashed behind his eyes. Thoughts of Bucky and his raging eyes and furious fists crowded him. He suddenly felt very large and didn’t know what to do with all of his limbs. 

“I don’t know, we have so much to do . . .” Even as he said it, looking around at a loose end, he knew that his heart wasn’t in it. 

“It will all be there in the morning,” she said.

“I know.”

"It wasn’t your fault." Sasha Novak’s ghost sat heavy across his shoulders. 

"I know," he said, although he didn’t believe it for a second.

She stood close enough to him that he could smell her perfume, rich spices and sharp citrus. Their eyes met and Natasha took his hands in hers. Her hands were soft and warm. The bright red polish on her nails stood stark against his pale skin. 

"We’ve been breaking our backs for months. Let’s just take this one night? And first thing tomorrow we’ll be back at it with fresh eyes. Scout’s honour." She gave him a three-fingered salute and looked like she was biting back a laugh.

“Grub’s up!” Clint cried, banging the door as he shouldered through holding a tray piled high with food. “You better be friends again, I swear to Thor.”

“Yes, yes. Best buddies once more,” she said, rolling her eyes, hands flashing along with her words.

And with that, Natasha whirled away from him and she and Clint set the table. Between them, they had prepared a feast; steaks, blue cheese sauce, crunchy green vegetables scattered with toasted, flaked almonds, honey glazed carrots and parsnips, mashed potatoes glistening with golden butter, crispy roasted potatoes done in goose fat with a healthy dose of sea salt and cracked black pepper, corn on the cob, and warm, freshly baked bread rolls. 

There was so much food they could barely get it all on the table. In the end, there wasn’t enough space so the three of them sat crossed-legged on the floor passing dishes between them and swigging from the wine bottle. 

Candles cast flickering shadows across the walls and bathed them in soft, warm light. The gentle crackle of records set against the city soundscape transported Steve back to another time. It called to him, glimmering around the edges of his mind, inviting him to step into his sepia-tinted memories once more and lose himself there. It was tempting, it would be easy. He could all but taste the cheap whiskey, and the smell of cigarettes came readily to his nose. And although the memories tugged, he pushed them away. 

Steve didn’t want to look back. 

He wanted to stay in this, his cosy, cream living room, basking in the orange sunset with his friends.

They ate until they could eat no more and lay groaning, clutching their stomachs. Clint and Natasha drank until their cheeks flushed and their eyes were dark and glossy. Steve remained unaffected, but being there with them was like a contact high. Stupid jokes and even sillier songs set them all off giggling, rolling around like children. Steve laughed until his sides hurt and he was gasping for air. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face. 

It felt good to laugh. It was hysterical and body wracking but it was like a valve had been opened and all the pressure that had been building and building for months was finally released. He wanted to capture this feeling, to save it for later when it inevitably faded and didn’t taste as sweet. 

The next morning dawned grey and overcast. A fine drizzle misted its way through the streets as Steve ran, soaking through his clothes and saturating his hair until it dripped into his eyes. The city was slow to wake up. There weren’t many people braving the rain, and those who did hurried past huddled into jackets and cowered under umbrellas. 

Any lightness from the previous evening had dissipated. He felt a new somberness and gravity, but more than just that, he felt a renewed purpose. They were close. Amongst all their data, there had to be a lead. 

Weaving through the streets, he allowed the pavement to fall away beneath him. His feet hit a steady rhythm. 

What did they know?

  1. Bucky really was alive. 



That, they could finally say with a degree of certainty and not just on the word of some dead-eyed impostor. He was alive and working with Hydra, an assassin. But more than that, an enhanced assassin. 

  1. Hydra was stitched into the fabric of SHIELD. 



They used their tech, their intelligence, their resources and vice versa. There was no distinguishing the two.

Then it hit him. 

The research labs.

The bases.

They had Loki’s sceptre. 

They had promised to bring about the next stage of human evolution.

They had promised  _ enhancements _ .

Steve stopped dead. Yells of protest bounced off him as he came to screeching halt and people had to dodge around him. But he paid their dirty looks no mind. His mind raced. He had to get back to his apartment. 

Breath hitching he took off. Running flat out, Brooklyn melted away into a brown blur. Blood pounded in his ears. Legs burning, he barrelled up his building’s stairs and burst through his front door with a bang. 

“Natasha! Nat!”

Natasha was in the living room sitting crossed legged on the sofa, a mug of coffee halfway to her mouth. When she saw him, dishevelled and panting, her brow furrowed and she cocked her head to the side with a questioning look. Before she could say anything, however, Steve was off. 

It was like he was careening down a hill, picking up momentum as he went and leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The words tumbled from his mouth, clattering and graceless and left in the dust at his feet as he paced back and forth. 

“Steve, stop. Slow down,” said Natasha, standing now and coming to stand in front of him. She looked up, green eyes searching his. “These bases, what are they?”

“Research facilities, training grounds, containment centres. They’re whatever they need them to be,” he said. He felt raw around the edges and his throat hurt from trying to speak around the golf ball sized lump that had lodged itself there. “But Pierce, Sitwell, the STRIKE Team, they’ve all mentioned them. Loki’s staff went to the one in Sokovia I visited in July and they specifically talked about the ‘next stage in human evolution’ which can only mean enhancements. They had, what they called, med bays but now I think about it they looked more like cells.”

Natasha considered this for a moment, her chest rising and falling as quick as a bird. She was very still, one hand poised over her heart, the other wrapped around her torso. 

A deep quake rumbled through Steve from his very core. He clenched his fists to stop the shaking but it only seemed to make things worse. 

“If he’s going to be anywhere, it’s got to be at one of those bases.”

“They must be scattered all across the country, the world,” Natasha breathed. She spoke so quietly, Steve almost couldn’t hear her. The cogs were turning. She worried at her bottom lip and her eyes flickered back and forth as if reading an imaginary page.

After a moment, she was animated once more, grabbing her laptop and plugging in the drive with all their data. She motioned for him to sit but he couldn’t, he had too much energy so he continued to pace. The clacking of keys and the hum of his boiler filled the air.

“Got it. Here they all are.” Natasha flipped her laptop around so that Steve could see the map pulled up on the screen. It was covered in red pins.

Steve crept closer, hardly daring to breathe. There were so many. They wove through Europe, the US, and Russia.

“Do any of these mean anything to you?” Natasha asked.

“No, other than the one in Sokovia, I don’t know what the rest of them do.”

“San Francisco, D.C., Seattle . . .” she trailed off, trying to comprehend the map. “Any of these could be a goldmine, or they could be a minefield. But if we go into any of them then our cover is blown.”

“Maybe it’s time.”

“Are you sure about that? It’s risky.”

“We were going to have to come out of the shadows at some point. And I can’t keep pretending, Nat.”

This gave Natasha pause. She regarded him, lips pressed firmly together, and nodded. 

“I knew the time would come eventually. That’s why I’ve been taking such detailed notes and making sure we’re in the clear – morally speaking. Legally I think we’d be fucked,” she said.

"That’s never stopped me before," Steve laughed. The adrenaline that had been coursing through him had cooled and he no longer felt the need to keep on moving.

Natasha grinned wolfishly.

“Okay then we need to decide how we’re going to do this,” she said, tapping one finger to her bottom lip. “If it was a case of packing a bag and going on the run, would you do it?”

“Yes. If it meant finding him, I would do just about anything.” The words were out before he even had a chance to think about it.

“And if he doesn’t want to be found? What if he doesn’t come in? Have you thought about that?”

Had he thought about that? Of course, he had thought about that. He didn’t want to put his friend down. He didn’t think he could do it even if there was a gun put to his head or a knife at his throat. It would be like killing part of himself. Again.

"We will - we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it," he sighed and sat down next to her on the sofa. "They’ve done god knows what to him. We should at least try to bring him home. I can’t lose him again, Natasha. I can’t."

Their eyes locked and Natasha nodded. She understood. 

"Okay, then let’s go through the list - find out how these bases function, what they’re doing behind closed doors. You take half, I’ll take half?"

The work was methodical. It calmed Steve, stopped his mind from working overtime. Some bases were glorified storage facilities, others were focussed on surveillance, aircraft, nano-tech, there seemed to be a base for everything. However, slowly, he filtered his portion of the list down to the ones that focussed on weapons and robotics. He kept on coming back to that metal arm. Surely it would need servicing, maintenance. It stood to reason that they’d have a specific facility equipped to deal with it.

Natasha had done the same, and between them, they had a list of 8 bases. Three were in the US. Three were in Europe. One was in Colombia and the final one lay in the depths of the Russian tundra. He tried to see a pattern in the locations but came up short.

"What say you?" asked Natasha as they poured over the list, crammed onto the tiny couch, shoulders pressed flushed together. 

"I say we start here, in D.C.," he said. The pin sat over the Smithsonian museum. All their reports pointed to a facility located deep within the museum’s basements - hidden in plain sight. "Then, move west. If he’s not in America, he may be in Russia."

"That base isn’t far from where I was trained," murmured Natasha, pointing between two spots on the map. "We  _ could  _ start there."

"No. Hydra’s real base of operations is the US now. It wouldn't make sense to have him located in Russia," he countered. "The real question is, once we hit the first base, what do we do? How do we move under the radar and stop them from taking everything offline and destroying everything?"

Natasha considered this.

"What if I was to dump it all?" she asked, swivelling to face him. "The biggest data dump the world has ever seen, everything on the internet. They wouldn’t be able to hide."

"Neither would we."

"I’d keep us safe." Her voice was hard and flinty and she sat as still as a statue

"It’s too risky. We should do both at the same time. Before we go in, we have to be sure. We’ll only have one shot."

"You’d go in alone?"

"I have to."

"There’s no changing your mind?"

"No. I owe him. I won’t fail him again."

"Steve . . ." His name was a whisper. He held up a hand.

"I know what you’re going to say but this is my fight. I have to be the one."

"Okay. Fine. Then, in that case, we have to cause the biggest damn distraction they’ve ever seen."

Natasha’s green eyes were aflame, glimmering with intent. Steve could all but see the cogs turning in her head. Even in this weak light, all drizzle and cheap bulb, seeing her like this, pensive and burning, he realised that, if he was ever to take up painting again, this would be how he would capture her. He had once thought he’d paint her like an Impressionist, all blurry edges and ephemeral but now, he saw her for what she was: a warrior. No, now he realised that he would paint her in oils like the Baroque Masters of old; he’d paint her as the Athena with her aegis held high; he’d paint her like the bold, fully realised women of Artemisia Gentileschi: defiant, violent, and beautiful. 

Several hours and four cups of coffee deep into his research, he found a new thread to tug on. Hidden within the archives of the Washington facility, he found report after report that mentioned an ‘Asset’. 

The details went around and around in circles, always vague and never truly painting a whole picture. But the deeper he probed, the clearer the image became, he drew out the key terms; strength, agility, master marksmanship, hand to hand combat, rapid healing. It was all there. File after file, he began to see Bucky again. 

There were mission reports and psych evaluations. There were service records for the robotic arm detailing how it pieced together, how they managed to fuse metal with flesh.

_ ‘Asset requires maintenance. Immediate wipe and reboot requested.’ _

Wipe and reboot. This request was put in time and time again and he couldn’t work out what it meant. Was it some kind of programming that needed to be renewed regularly? They wrote about him as if he was a machine and not a living, breathing human.

Then he found it. It pinged into the archive just after 6 pm.

_ ‘Mission Report for 9th September 2012 _

_ The Asset completed the mission as outlined in the proposal dated 15th August 2012.  _

_ Target was eliminated within the expected parameters, however, the mission cannot be considered a success.  _

_ The Asset was seen, engaged in combat with Captain Rogers, and drew unwanted media attention. Subsequently, the Asset exhibited volatile behaviours and noncompliance. Three orderlies were injured and are currently recuperating. _

_ Proposed action: Full wipe and reboot _

_ Timeframe: Immediate action required _

_ The Asset has been returned to the Washington D.C. facility pending further action. _

_ More details to follow.’ _

Steve read and reread the report. He could hardly believe it. This is what they had been looking for. This was what they had been waiting for.

"What have you found?" asked Natasha. Steve let out a long, low breath. It whooshed out of him.

"A report from last week. He’s in D.C.," he breathed. He was reeling and something that felt dangerously like hope welled up in his chest. It was a bright, burning light. He touched a finger to the dog tags lying beneath his shirt.

"Makes sense to keep him close to HQ."

"Makes our lives easier if we want to hit them at the same time."

Natasha read the report, leaning across Steve to see his laptop screen. She pursed her lips, a frown pulling at her features. Once she had caught up, she slumped back on the sofa and gazed, unseeing, at the ceiling. 

"We could leave tonight. Get to DC before tomorrow morning, before they have a chance to move him," said Natasha, rapid-fire.

"Do you have everything you need?"

"Always."

"Then let’s do it. Call Clint. We could use the extra man," said, Steve, pushing off the sofa. 

When he had imagined this moment, he had imagined there would be more pomp, more gravitas, more adrenaline. As it was, he felt totally calm, almost resigned. It had been a long time coming. And he was ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy not quite Friday my loves! This is coming slightly earlier than usual since I'm heading out camping after work tomorrow right i finish which leaves no time for posting. 
> 
> Also! I just posted a companion piece to this here fic called [of little spiders and men](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614253). A cheeky look inside Natasha's brain these last 7 or 8 chapters and then some!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! Next week: _Cataclysm_.
> 
> As ever, I'm over [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	9. Cataclysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was not a foolproof plan. It wasn’t even an elegant plan. They all realised this. It was little more than some coat hooks with a plan draped over them. There was so much that could go wrong but with some luck, they would pull it off._
> 
> _"Everyone ready for the end of the world?" asked Natasha as the three of them walked across the wide, airy atrium._
> 
> _"I’ve been ready for that since 1945," said Steve._
> 
> ||SHIELD, Hydra - it all goes. Steve knows where Bucky is. Now it’s time to burn some shit to the ground.

The three of them left Brooklyn a little after midnight. Clint was in the driver’s seat of their nondescript van and Steve and Natasha were in the back again. They were already geared up. Natasha’s all black suit creaked every time she moved and she didn’t stop fiddling with all the straps the whole ride. Steve had looked at his options, had almost picked out the shiny, new suit that Tony had sent him with it’s moulded body armour and shiny star. But he couldn’t do it. Instead, he pulled out his old, faded field uniform. The smell of mud and forest had long since disappeared from the fabric but as he pulled it from his closet he almost thought that he could smell it again. 

Wearing it brought a sense of comfort and calmed his erratic heart. At his inner left wrist, there was a crudely patched up tear that his fingers went back to time and time again. He had never been an expert sewer but he knew how to patch and mend and darn. His ma had taught him how. 

On quiet evenings hunched around a low campfire, he’d set about his chores and the other men would laugh, calling him a mother hen as he gathered up whatever needed fixing. But on this particular occasion, he didn’t have the right material to mend the tear in a subtle way, so Bucky tore a piece from an old work shirt for him. It was oil stained and faded but he had accepted it readily and stitched it in as carefully as he could. 

At the time, they had joked it was to be Steve’s good luck charm.

"Think of me and let it be your conscience," he’d laughed while he sat with his back up against a tree, looking comfortably rumpled in a too big, knitted, green sweater with a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips. "Might keep you out of trouble for once."

It hadn’t. Of course. But sometimes, in moments where he felt like he’d needed some extra courage, he touched a fingertip to where the patch layered under the cuff of his gloves and thought of his friend. And that had been enough to get him through. It had always been enough.

They arrived in D.C. as the sun was making its lazy ascent. The sky was ablaze. Orange clouds burned across a red-toned sky, turning the cityscape into a dramatic silhouette. 

During the drive, the three of them had discussed how they wanted to approach the mission, and in time they settled on a plan. Steve would accompany Clint and Natasha into SHIELD headquarters where they would split, and Steve would flag down Brock Rumlow. Rumlow, they reasoned, would know about the Smithsonian facility and be able to direct Steve accordingly. All the while, the two spies would plant the data and expose Hydra to the world.

It was not a foolproof plan. It wasn’t even an elegant plan. They all realised this. It was little more than some coat hooks with a plan draped over them. There was so much that could go wrong but with some luck, they would pull it off. 

"Everyone ready for the end of the world?" asked Natasha as the three of them walked across the wide, airy atrium. 

"I’ve been ready for that since 1945," said Steve, eyes sweeping the atrium in one long look. He alighted briefly on the statue of the metal eagle that served as SHIELD’s emblem. It had once looked righteous and honourable, but now it was tainted and looked sinister.

"Well, you might just get it today, Cap," muttered Clint. He touched the back of Natasha’s arm and the two of them peeled off. "See you after."

Steve watched them go. A new determination settled about him and, clenching his jaw, he set off towards the STRIKE Team offices on the 14th floor.

All the corridors looked the same. They were sleek, and his footsteps echoed uncomfortably as he walked. People milled about their daily duties and barely gave Steve a second glance. Somehow, this put him on edge even more.

Everything was heightened for him. It all seemed too bright, too loud, too close. Some tinny voiced part of him screamed for him to run away, to avoid whatever was to come next. But he ignored it, as he always did, and touched a finger to the inside of his left wrist.

Working methodically through the corridors, Steve kept his eyes peeled for Rumlow but he wasn’t anywhere to be found. He prowled through them until - ah ha!

There was the bastard. Brock Rumlow was at the end of the corridor talking to a blonde woman in a dark grey suit. She looked pissed off, and like she was about to rip him a new one but was biting her tongue.

"Rumlow!" Steve called, jogging to catch up with him. The blonde woman shook her head and started to leave but Rumlow caught her by the elbow.

"Don’t be so uppity with me, Agent 13. We’ll talk later, okay?" he purred, the woman winced and pulled away without a word.

"What was that all about?" asked Steve as he drew level with the dark-haired man, jutting his chin towards the woman’s retreating back. 

"Aww, nothing. She’s just being sour. Pay her no mind. What’s up?" Brock hooked his fingers through his belt loops and stood at ease. His cattle prod was holstered on his left hip.

Steve’s stomach twisted sharply and his throat tightened but he smiled a plain, unassuming smile, pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to Rumlow who took it without question.

"Peirce has orders for us. Gotta get moving," he said, bolshy and full of the jocky zeal that Rumlow so valued. 

He read the paper in silence, eyes flicking across the page and eyebrows pulling together. It was a clever forgery, courtesy of Natasha and Clint. Between the two of them, they had stitched together what he hoped was a convincing fake. Rumlow pursed his lips ever so slightly then let out a low sigh.

"I wish he’d just come and tell me these things himself," he grumbled, handing the paper back.

Steve took it, willing his fingers not to shake and give the game away. The corridor was busier now, and the clatter of shoes and hubbub of voices pressed hard against his ears. They couldn’t speak openly, but Rumlow gestured for him to follow. They started to make their way back down the atrium.

Once alone in the lift, he turned to Steve with a grin.

"So you’re finally getting a shot at the big guy, huh? Moving up in the world, eh, Cap?" he joshed, nudging Steve’s arm with his elbow. There was a malicious glint to his eye and a sneer in his voice that he didn’t like. "Wait till you see him. You’re hardly gonna be able to believe your eyes."

Steve kept his gaze firmly ahead, but his fingers flexed in his belt loops. He wanted to punch Rumlow in the teeth. He knew. He knew who Bucky was to him and he couldn’t wait to watch the sparks fly.

"Yeah, I guess Pierce is really starting to trust me enough to give me a shot at the big leagues," he said.

Rumlow laughed a low, dark laugh.

"It’s nice to finally have you at the big boy’s table. Now you get to see what we can really do."

"Can’t wait." 

He wanted to vomit. The lies and deception sat ashy in his mouth. He felt contaminated, like their poison had eroded parts of his soul. 

"This had better be worth it," he thought, because he couldn’t bear to think what it would cost if it wasn’t.

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of the Smithsonian and entered through a side door that led towards the basements. The drive had been, somewhat inevitably, very quiet. Rumlow was no conversationalist and Steve was too preoccupied with what lay ahead.

"How much further?" he asked when they entered the building and began their descent into the bowels. 

"Down these steps and the corridor to the left. Get to the end, turn right. There’s a door and voila, you’re there," said Rumlow, distracted and disinterested as he checked his phone.

Steve nodded and considered this for a moment. It couldn’t be that simple.

"What about security? How do you keep the staff away?"

"Ha. This place is so big, half the staff don’t even know what’s down here. It’s a goddamn maze. We have a coded door, that’s enough for this place. Plus, we only need it big enough for the two handlers that’re there." He barked a laugh.

Heart in his mouth, Steve waited until they reached a small landing and then pounced. He rammed Rumlow into the closest wall. His head smacked against the concrete with a thud. Keeping one of Rumlow’s arms twisted high up his back, Steve crushed his forearm into the other man’s neck. The wind rushed from Rumlow’s lungs.

"Tell me the code and how to get into the facility," Steve growled.

The man wriggled beneath him. But it was futile. Steve’s grip on him was iron. He slammed him again.

"Tell me and I let you live."

Rumlow laughed.

"Bit dark for you, Cap. You don’t have the balls for that."

"Let’s see about that, shall we?" he hissed, increasing the pressure on his throat. His face started turning a fine shade of puce. It gave Steve a sick sense of pleasure. He’d been waiting to give Rumlow a taste of his own medicine for months. "The code."

"Not much of a plan you’ve got," he wheezed, gasping for air. "That desperate to see your buddy, huh?"

Gritting his teeth, Steve ignored the jab. 

"He won’t know you. You know that right?" Rumlow spat, as Steve pressed a knee into his back and groped for the cattle prod. 

It sizzled on with deadly intent, blue electricity crackling over the tip. 

"He will," Steve hissed and cracked the cattle prod into Rumlow’s ribs.

Violent spasms hurtled through his body but Steve held him against the wall. It went like this for several minutes. Every time Rumlow resisted, Steve thrust the cattle prod into his side. Again. And again. And again. And again. He jerked. He twisted. His eyes rolled up in his head. The veins popped in his forehead. The tendons in his neck strained. But Steve pushed on. The smell of sweat and piss flooded his nostrils.

Dark delight pulsed through him. 

Vindication. 

"I will ask you one more time," he said, voice low and dangerous. "What is the code?"

Panting, Rumlow sagged. 

And gave up the code.

Steve let the man drop to the floor and he cracked the cattle prod over his knee, breaking it in half. Each breath came in a rush. His whole body pulsed. At his feet, Rumlow was a quivering heap, the electricity having reduced his muscles to mush. Steve smirked and pushed him over with the tip of his boot. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from his nose.

"Thanks,  _ buddy _ . That wasn’t so hard now was it." Steve scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth.

Rumlow’s eyes rolled in his head. With a snort of disgust, Steve grabbed the magnetic cuffs from Rumlow’s belt, flicked them open and cuffed him to the nearest bannister. He took his gun and ammo as well, stowing them in an empty holster strapped to this thigh. The phone and radio he crushed under his boot.

He shot a final look at the crumpled man at his feet and felt a dark satisfaction crawl through his veins. Then, he turned and left him there. He’d be picked up at some point or another. 

As he moved off, the satisfaction turned sour, and an edge of guilt pushed forward. It was slimy and left a clammy sweat across his skin. He wondered if he could really be called the good guy.

Steve crept down the stairs, shield held high. The dim lights flickered and cast spidery shadows across the walls.

"Are you clear?" crackled Natasha’s voice in his ear.

"Rumlow is down. I’m in the basements now. Clear for action," he murmured, eyes sweeping the empty corridor before him.

"Okay, see you on the other side - and Steve? Please be careful."

"When am I not?" he quipped, sounding much steadier than he felt, and pushed further down the corridor. "I’ll buy the doughnuts this time."

Natasha’s laugh was breathy and shallow.

"Come home, Rogers. Don’t leave me waiting." And then, she was gone, the comm clicking into silence. 

He was on his own now. The Smithsonian basements were a maze, but with Rumlow’s directions, he navigated deeper and deeper, stepping over unused exhibits and dodging around archive cabinets as he went. Any sounds of the outside had long since faded away, and all he could hear was his own shallow breathing and the clang of water pipes.

Eventually, he reached the door that Rumlow had said would lead to the facility. He stabbed at the keypad, on high alert. The slightest sound raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and his eyes never stopped moving. Once through the door, the scene changed. Gone were the dusty exhibits and cluttered hallways. Everything was sleek, metallic. 

The corridor he now found himself in was clear and bright, and there were several doors leading off on each side. Rumlow had said the facility was clear, and that the only people there would be two handlers. But, not wanting to take his word for it, Steve checked them anyway. Each room was laid out like a laboratory and, thankfully, was clear.

As Steve approached the very last room, his heart thrashed against his ribs, and he could taste metal at the back of his throat. Steeling himself, he crept forward, hardly daring to breathe.

From just beyond the last door, he could hear voices. Two men. They sounded relaxed, jovial. He paused for a second and considered how to play it. With a resigned sigh, he touched the inside of his left wrist, grit his teeth and entered. 

Two boulder headed men with hardened faces were playing cards at a low table. Their smiles evaporated when they saw Steve push through the door. They leapt up, scrabbling for their guns.

"Relax fellas, Secretary Pierce sent me. He wants the Asset moved," he said, putting his hands in the air and plastering on his best simpering smile.

"We weren’t told about any transfer."

"Pierce always sends word before sending a team."

"I know this is all very last minute but he’s to be moved to the San Francisco facility tonight. I’m just the messenger, guys," he said with a shrug, letting his eyes roam over the bare room they were in.

There was another door behind the men with a small porthole window that showed a darkened room beyond. He took a step towards it, trying to keep his stance casual. The men hadn’t lowered their guns, so Steve kept his hands where they could see them. Suspicion played across their features as they assessed him.

"Come on, I have Rumlow and the rest of the STRIKE Team standing by outside in the van. This is coming direct from Pierce himself, you’re welcome to check in with him but you know, he really doesn’t like orders being questioned like this." If he kept talking then maybe they’d just go along with it. "We’re all just trying to do our job, and lemme tell ya, this is kind of a big deal for me. The responsibility - you guys get it right? Ach, but what am I saying, of course you do. You’re the most trusted, clearly. I mean you’re here on the frontlines - keeping it in check."

As he rattled off this stream of consciousness, he took a few more careful steps around the men and towards the door. The men exchanged a look. Neither looked particularly thrilled at the thought of bothering their boss.

"Fine. We’ll get him ready," sighed one, holstering his gun and turning towards the door.

Steve nodded like none of this was news to him. Underneath his old, faded uniform, Bucky’s dog tags seemed to burn into his skin. As he moved towards the door, his breath hitched and the blood roared in his ears. His shield felt heavy on his arm.

Steve followed the two men, keeping an even two paces behind as they pushed through the door to the backroom. 

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was sweat, and oil, and iron. It was unwashed body, and deep, ingrained grime. Steve could taste it at the back of his throat, thick, grainy, and dry. 

With the door opened, Steve could now see what lay behind. This room was much darker than the last, and rubber tubing hung from the ceiling like garlands. To the left was a control panel covered in buttons and LED lights. A glass-fronted tube was in the top right corner. It stood empty, and several tubes hung limp inside. Seeing them raised the hair on the back of Steve's neck and sent a wave of unease over him. The centre of the room was dominated by a series of grizzly looking machines. They were all dark metal, clamps and needles, and they snarled their way around a large leather chair with shackles on the arms and legs. Even from here, he could see the scratches and indentations where nails had clawed at the armrests. He baulked and looked away quickly. He didn't want to think about what that meant.

It was at this moment that he turned towards the handlers. They had entered into what could only be called a cell. Cramped and fronted in glass, it held a metal sink and a toilet that was bolted to the wall. In the very back corner was a bed. It folded out from the wall and was held in place by two thick, metal chains. Across the top on the bed was a thin, grubby mattress that looked like it had once born a jolly yellow print, but that had long since faded to grey. 

And it was around this bed that the handlers were crowded. They spoke in low, rushed tones, bent over the figure that sat there. Their shoulders blocked him.  _ His  _ legs stretched out in front of him, clad all in black and heavy, combat boots.

Steve’s whole body pulsed. His heart hammered. Mouth dry, he edged forward, trying to see him. The handlers still blocked his view. All he could see was the top of his dark head. His body ached. He was like an overwound spring.

Then, the handlers moved and hauled him to his feet. Their eyes locked together.

Time seemed to slow, and all Steve could see were the eyes that had haunted him since 1945. A breath caught in his throat and there was roaring in his ears.

He looked almost the same as he did the last time he’d seen him but his eyes were sunken and his cheeks hollow. 

Steve felt like he was choking. 

"Bucky." His name was little more than a strangled cry at the back of his throat but it was enough. 

Bucky juddered to a halt mid-step. The handlers tugged his arms and hurled foul insults his way, but he stayed rooted to the spot. Eyebrows pulling together, his eyes flickered over Steve, and his mouth hung open ever so slightly in a lip-curling snarl. Just like that night at the boxing, he had the devil in his eyes once more. 

Steve was frozen. Everything but Bucky faded away into darkness. Deep in his belly, he felt a tug, something trying to propel him forward towards his friend, but he couldn’t move. 

They were meters apart. He could reach out and touch him if he wanted. He opened his mouth to say - what? He didn’t know. But either way, the words caught in his throat.

This moment stretched out, further and further until, at last, it snapped. 

In a flurry of motion, Bucky grabbed one handler by the throat. Metal tore into soft flesh. The man collapsed. Blood spurted across the back wall. Steve cried out. The other man was scrambling, fumbling for his gun. But it was too late. Quick as a flash, Bucky was on him. Crack. He was a ragdoll.

And just like that, they were dead. Steve didn’t know what to do. He’d killed them in seconds. Neither of them moved. 

Steve held his hands up and slowly, ever so slowly, he removed his helmet. Bucky glared at him. His chest rose and fell in quick succession, and his fingers were curled into tight fists. The helmet slipped from Steve’s fingers and clanged to the floor. 

"Bucky," he said again, clearer this time. Bucky flinched and shut his eyes. "Bucky, it’s me."

Breathing heavily, he jerked his head from side to side and took a fumbling step forward. Steve did the same but kept himself in a fighting stance, unsure of how the next few minutes would unfold. 

"I need you to come with me. We’re not safe here," he said, putting as much urgency as he dared into his voice.

"You?" Bucky breathed, now looking him full in the face. His voice sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. He hadn’t realised just how much he had longed to hear it again and just how much his memory had warped its husky cadence. "Who the hell are you?"

This last question was spat at his feet. He was jittery, confused. 

"We were friends once. I’m Steve . . . your Steve," he said softly, barely louder than a whisper. Then, in a thin attempt at humour, he added, "I used to be smaller."

"Steve . . ." He seemed to be testing his name out in his mouth, working it over to see if it fit. The sound of his name in Bucky’s mouth sent a thrill through him and his heart ached.

As Bucky considered this, Steve took the chance to edge closer.

Right as he did, the radios strapped to the handlers uniforms crackled to life.

"THIS IS A CODE RED. I REPEAT A CODE RED. SHIELD HAS FALLEN. I REPEAT, SHIELD HAS FALLEN. ALL PERSONNEL BE ADVISED, CAPTAIN ROGERS AND AGENTS ROMANOFF AND BARTON ARE RESPONSIBLE. CONSIDER THEM ARMED AND DANGEROUS."

Shit.

Bucky leapt back. Steve lurched forward, hands flying up as if to grab him.

"No," he cried. "I’m here to help. I don’t want to hurt you."

But it was no use. Bucky dove for the handler’s guns, ripping them from their holsters and had one levelled at Steve’s face in seconds. 

"I don’t want to fight you," he said, voice cracking.

"Why?"

"You’re my friend."

Steve gripped his shield and gulped. He wanted to say so much more but didn’t dare when, at that moment, it felt like everything hung in the balance. Bucky jerked his head from side to side again, wincing. The gun lowered a fraction. With a frustrated grunt, he refocussed the gun and shot Steve a deadly look.

"I don’t understand." The words didn’t come easily. He tripped over them like he wasn’t used to speaking and this only seemed to frustrate him more.

So he took the chance and began to speak.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, born 10th March 1917. Your mother was Winnifred Barnes. You have a sister, Becca.” At Becca’s name, Bucky stuttered, halted mid step as something flickered through him. Steve surged on, “Becca’s never thought you were dead, she told me so. You remember her, right? She’s the only one to ever call you Jamie. To everyone else, you’re Bucky."

The words came urgent and fast. Steve stayed stock still, hands held out at his sides, palms facing towards Bucky. Bucky’s eyes darted around the room but kept coming back to Steve’s face again and again. He didn’t say a word but Steve could hear his quickened breathing.

"You were an artist and a damn good one too. But we were broke so you took a job you hated as a clerk. You were drafted into the United States Army in 1942 and you tried to hide your draft number from me for weeks because you were so damn scared. And when I found the letter in the coffee tin, you got angry at me, stormed out," Steve continued. He didn’t know why he was saying all this, but so far it seemed to be all that was keeping him from being shot in the face. "You came back with whiskey, and cigars that tasted like dirt, and we sat out on the fire escape until the sun came up."

That had been a long, blissful night. They had talked for hours, smoked too much, and drank until their words slurred and the world outside of their apartment disappeared into inky darkness. Steve could still remember the way he’d looked; resigned, defeated, furious, frighted. He had done his best to hide it. So he did what he always did, acted like a cocky bastard. He stood on the railings, arms wide and shouted at the world to strike him down. At that moment, it had really felt like nothing, not even God himself, could smite him. At that moment, Bucky had seemed immortal and glorious. 

"Liar!" spat Bucky. "I have no family, no friends."

"Yes, you do," Steve countered. The gun in Bucky’s hands wavered, his resolve seemed to be weakening. "You have both. Walk out of here with me now, and you can have that. You will never have to take someone else’s orders again. Come with me and you’re free."

They were on a knife-edge. One misstep and they’d fall into the abyss. Steve longed to go to him, to feel him beneath his fingers, real and solid once more, but he remained rooted to the spot. The barrel of the gun stared at him, cold and unyielding.

"Bucky, please, there are people who can help you, good people," he murmured.

"Stop!" Bucky sounded raw now, and there was a feral panic rising behind his eyes. A deep flush had appeared high on his cheeks. 

Steve swallowed his next monologue. Adrenaline spiked through him. Every muscle jittered with energy. The radios still blared in the background, repeating their infernal message over and over. He waited for what was to come.

"Steve?" Natasha’s voice sprung to life in his ear. "We’re in position. Do you have him?"

"I’m looking at him right now," said Steve carefully, touching a finger to the comm in his ear.

Bucky frowned, nostrils flaring. His grip on the gun tightened, the gears in his left arm whirred and clicked. 

"Hurry. We don’t have long." Natasha was clipped, stressed.

"What do you say, Buck? Will you come with me? Do you want to be free?" He could hear Natasha breathing in his ear and Clint yelling somewhere in the background.

This, Steve quickly realised, was the wrong thing to say. Heat rose in Bucky’s face and the wildness that had been building behind his eyes was unleashed. 

He lunged towards him - fists flying.

Crack. 

White spots erupted across Steve’s vision. The gun butt had caught him across the temple. He stumbled. His knees hit the ground. Sharp pain shot up his thighs. He was barely able to raise his shield before Bucky was upon him once more.

The blows rained down. Steve raced to catch up with what had just happened. He pushed himself back up, shoulder braced against his shield. Bucky grunted with the force of each punch. A clang. His metal fist connected with the shield. It rang in Steve’s ears for several seconds, throwing him off. Composing himself, he aimed a low kick at Bucky’s legs. He dodged it and leapt back, panting.

"I don’t want to fight you," Steve said again. "You’re my  _ friend _ ."

He meant it. If he fought Bucky here, then it would mean he’d have to put him down. And he couldn’t do that.

"Liar!" he cried, tackling Steve around the middle.

They fell to the floor. Steve threw his arms up across his face as Bucky resumed his ferocious retribution. His metal fist bit into Steve’s cheek. Another blow to the kidney, to the stomach, to the face again, and again, and again. 

"I don’t know you!" Bucky snarled, each word punctuated by a heavy blow. 

"Yes, you do," Steve slurred. 

Everything was hazy, now. Steve was limp. Natasha yelled in his ear.

With a final roar, Bucky’s fist met Steve’s nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all comes tumbling down! 
> 
> Can you believe we're at the halfway point of this? I can't. 
> 
> As ever, thank you all for sticking with this and reading each week. 
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)


	10. A Couple of Architects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Idly, he traced a finger across the rapidly healing gashes across his face. Most were shallow and would be healed by the morning, but a few had cut deep. Bucky’s fists were phantoms on his skin._
> 
> || With everything out there and Bucky in the wind, Steve, Clint, and Natasha lay low and contemplate their next steps.

A gentle rocking brought Steve back around. Confused, sore and groggy, he opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor in the back of the van. They were moving. Clint was driving. Natasha was at his side, sitting cross-legged, head in her hands. Bucky was nowhere to be seen. 

When Natahsa saw him stirring, she looked up and relief flooded her features. 

"Oh thank God," she breathed, grabbing Steve’s hand and pressing it to her lips. 

She had a cut lip and there was a tear in the shoulder of her black suit, but, otherwise, she seemed unharmed - ruffled, but unharmed.

He struggled upright and winced. It felt like he had a broken rib. He groaned and clasped his other hand over Natasha’s. Their foreheads met. Together, they sat like that for several minutes. Eventually, he had to ask:

"What happened? Where is he?" Their hands lowered but stayed joined.

"He was gone by the time we reached you," Natasha said quietly. She sounded hoarse. "He’s in the wind."

Her mouth hitched at one side, half-hearted and defeated in equal measure. Steve sighed. 

"Shit," he groaned, leaned back against the van wall and stared at the ceiling without seeing. He rocked in time with the van’s motion. It jostled his aching body but he didn’t care. "What about you guys?"

"Went without a hitch, Cap," chimed in Clint from the front. Steve met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Clint appeared somewhat shellshocked, his eyes wide and glossy. He had the beginnings of two black eyes and a cut across the bridge of his nose. "Everything is out there now."

"I see you still managed to get into a few scraps through." Steve touched a finger to the tear at Natasha’s shoulder. She smiled and shook her head. 

"Going in is always easier than coming out. Nothing we couldn’t handle," she said, squeezing his hands. 

Neither of them was giving much away and they were clearly downplaying whatever had happened within SHIELD headquarters, but Steve could tell they were both rattled. Natasha was holding him as tight as she possibly could. There was a noticeable tremble to her fingers, and she was taking deep, very marked breaths that quivered on the exhale. 

"Where to now?" he asked after a moment.

"Safehouse. We know a place," grunted Clint.

"I thought all your covers were blown?"

"All but one. Not even SHIELD has -  _ had  _ \- this one on record," Natasha murmured, voice cracking.

Steve left it there. It didn’t seem fair to push them any further. So, he stayed seated on the floor holding Natasha’s hands until they stopped shaking and her breathing had calmed. Eventually, they changed, peeling off all their layers and pulling on civilian clothes. The clothes were non-descript, plain but comfortable. Several wigs were stashed in their bags along with the face-changing mesh masks they had used the day they stole all of Hydra’s intel. They would need them for when they eventually stopped for gas. 

None of them spoke much. The day’s events weighed heavily on all of them, although Steve suspected it was for vastly different reasons. Natasha curled up in her hoodie and shut her eyes, feigning sleep. Two lines appeared between her eyebrows and her lips were pursed. Clint kept his eyes on the road, but his fingers drummed incessantly on the steering wheel, skin sticking to the leather with every beat. There was no music playing.

This left Steve in the company of his own thoughts. 

On a regular day, that wasn’t something that was necessarily a bad thing. But today was not a regular day. Idly, he traced a finger across the rapidly healing gashes across his face. Most were shallow and would be healed by the morning, but a few had cut deep. Bucky’s fists were phantoms on his skin. 

Over and over, Steve replayed their interactions from beginning to end. On the surface, it seemed like so little of the Bucky he had known remained, but scratch it away even a little, and the truth of him began to shine through. It was there in the way he held himself and the way he rounded out his vowels. But, Steve conceded, it was also there in the way he held his gun and the way he threw his left hook to the body. 

70 years of brainwashing and torture, and Bucky, the man, was only ever a few inches below the surface waiting to break free. 

It had not been the reunion Steve was expecting. In truth, he didn’t know what he had imagined would happen, but it had always ended in Bucky coming with him. Bitterness crept up like an old, unwanted friend and settled in the depths of his chest. It soured his countenance and turned him against himself. As much as he tried to block out that snide little voice, it whispered cruel jabs in his ear all the way to the Berkshires.

They drove to avoid the highways and tolls, taking a scenic route through the lush greenery of Pennsylvania then cutting across New York state towards Albany before turning down into Massachusetts. Each of them took a turn driving and Steve pulled the last leg. Darkness had long since pulled in around them and the roads were quiet. In the back, Clint and Natasha were crammed into one seat, fast asleep. It couldn’t be comfortable but it was the most relaxed either of them had looked since they left D.C.. 

Clint had left directions to the safehouse taped to the dash which Steve followed to the letter. They led him through leafy villages and dense forest and wound through the hills. It was too early in the season for the leaves to fall and it was too dark for him to see if they had begun to turn. 

Eventually, however, he pulled up in front of an ivy-covered lake house set amongst towering conifers and sycamores. With its pale blue exterior, white columns, and turret, it looked like a doll’s house come to life. As the van came to a halt, Natasha and Clint woke. Bleary-eyed, they gathered their belongings and pulled a set of house keys from the depths of some rucksack or another.

Inside, it was all Victorian style wood panelling, archways, high ceilings, and oak spindles. Just visible up the stairs was a stained glass window. Pictures lined the walls, pictures of Clint and Natasha together. The two spies were almost unrecognisable with their open, easy grins. It was an entire life he hadn’t known existed. They moved through the house with familiarity, kicking off their shoes and throwing their bags to the floor. It seemed that Steve had vastly misjudged their relationship. 

With a yawn, Natasha beckoned him to follow her up the stairs. 

He followed, mute and staring, head swivelling from side to side trying to take it all in. The panelling and period features continued to the upper levels. More pictures lined the walls and several vases of dried flowers decorated the various tables and bookcases on the second-floor landing. The stairs continued up to a third level. 

Natasha pulled a set of towels from a closet and led him to the bedroom. He was in the turret. The large windows looked out onto the lake which glimmered like obsidian in the moonlight. 

"If you need anything, we’ll be upstairs. Make yourself at home," she said in a dead-eyed monotone, gesturing around the room. "There’s food in the pantry if you get hungry, but we’ll send out for groceries in the morning."

"Natasha . . ." Steve trailed off. 

She looked up at him with tired eyes, gave his arm a quick squeeze, and turned to leave. "Good night, Steve," she said and slipped from the room.

Left alone, Steve took in his bedroom. It was dominated by a large, dark wood bed that was covered in a green, gingham check comforter that matched the pale floral wallpaper. Two iron wall lamps flanked the bed and there were two shiny, mahogany dressers under the windows. The floors were bare hardwood, but it was covered largely by a fluffy white rug. Even to Steve’s untrained eye, it was an attractive setup. 

Steve dropped his bags at the door and sat down on the bed. It almost swallowed him whole. It was even softer than the bed in his Brooklyn apartment. He struggled back up again and moved towards the window. A neatly kept lawn sloped down towards the black water, and a small pier jutted out into the darkness. 

Steve huffed, thumbs resting on his belt buckle. When they had said they had a safe house, this was not what he’d had in mind. He’d thought it would be some grey, four up four down affair in the suburbs, not a beautiful lake house. The pictures on the walls betrayed a life kept well under wraps and well separated from their life of espionage. What had Clint said at the hospital? That they were architects. He’d dismissed it at the time, not realising the extent to which it rang true. 

All too soon, the day started to take its toll once more, and Steve resigned himself to sleep. He changed, pulled the thick comforter and duvet from the bed and settled in on the floor as was his custom. His still healing body protested, but he settled down all the same. 

Sleep came quick and sudden, like dropping off a ledge, but his dreams were a confusion of memories that twisted together into ugly visions that left him tossing and turning throughout the night. 

Despite the length of the previous day and the tumult of his sleep, Steve pinged awake as usual at 5:30 AM. He was stiff but pleased that there was no twinge in his rib. Outside, mist hung low on the water and the first streaks of orange were beginning to beat back the purple pre-dawn. A few stars still clung desperately to the sky, not yet wanting to give up their tenure.

Steve clambered to his feet, the remnants of sleep still had him in its grasp, but he shook it off. After a quick shower, he made his way down the sloping lawn to the pier. The wooden slats were damp with dew, but he sat down anyway and watched the sky change colours. The serenity of the scene before him, with its happily twittering birds and soft, rustling wind, however, did not match the heaving thoughts running through his mind. Sleep had not eased his conscience, and the deep exhaustion that usually ran through him seemed to have increased tenfold. He had been so close and he had failed. Again.

Natasha found him there, unmoved, a little after seven-thirty. She passed him a cup of coffee and sat down at his side, throwing half of her blanket around his shoulders. The surface of the water rippled with fish coming up to feed.

"A lot of rats didn’t go down with the ship," she said eventually. She sounded small and subdued. Her eyes stayed trained on the water, resolutely not looking at Steve.

He studied her profile. In the pale morning light, she looked like she was carved from marble. 

"I know," he sighed, turning away from her to follow her gaze out over the lake. Obviously, there was more work to do. Hydra’s reach was global. Just because their epicentre had crumbled, it didn’t mean that the rest would immediately follow suit. 

Beside him, Natasha swallowed. She held her coffee cup in both hands but hadn’t touched it.

"It was horrible," she admitted finally. "When we uploaded it all and announced what we’d done - it was a massacre. People you’d never expect were in on it. People I trusted. I knew what the stakes were, we both did, but seeing it play out was. . ."

Natasha gulped, hugged her knees, and gazed sightlessly across the water. Steve’s heart hurt for her, she had given him so much and in return, he had destroyed a huge part of her life. SHIELD had been the stabilising force for good for her, and now it was gone. She would never say that in so many words, but he knew that she had taken pride in the work she did for them - the cheques and balances for her ledger.

Steve hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should reach out, but then he did anyway and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to draw her close to his side. She welcomed his touch like she’d been waiting for it, and leaned into him, her head resting against his chest. Steve pressed a cheek to the top of her head. 

They sat like that for several minutes, neither saying anything. The closeness felt nice. It was something simple and true, something needed in the aftermath of everything they had done.

"I’m sorry I brought you into this, put your life here at risk," he said eventually, gesturing back towards the house with his head. 

"My life here was a fantasy, Steve. We played pretend for a few weeks a year, none of it was real." She looked him in the eye and spoke without artifice. 

"None of it? Those pictures looked pretty real." Steve grinned and poked Natasha’s shoulder gently.

She ducked her head and let her hair fall across her face for a second. 

"Okay, not all of it was a fantasy.  _ That _ at least was -  _ is _ real," she conceded with a low laugh and shook her hair back from her face. Then she turned the full force of her gaze on him once more. "What about you? What’s your truth?"

Steve dropped his arm from her and opened his mouth to answer but the words wouldn’t come. He hung his head, allowing it to fall into his hands as he let out a long breath. Some part of him was surprised that it had taken Natasha this long to come out and ask him so directly. They had existed together for almost six months and she had never asked him to name it. There had always been some unspoken understanding between them. She knew. Of course, she did. How could she not? But the time had come for him to say it out loud. To admit it to her. But also to himself.

"The truth?" He pondered the words, shook his head and looked back up across the water. "The truth is I’m compromised. I’ve been compromised from the beginning, and it’s put you in danger. I’ve asked you to risk everything, and I asked you to do it on the word of some impostor wearing my face."

He paused here, swallowed, and rubbed his eyes, digging his fingers in until he saw stars. 

"Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky," he whispered and the truth of that statement came into sudden, sharp relief. "I loved him more than life itself. Hell, I sank a plane into the Arctic because it was better than living without him."

It was the first time he’d ever truly admitted the feelings that had always been there, lurking just out of sight and reach. Natasha nodded. 

"And now?" she prompted after a moment.

"And now, I’ve torn down the world for him.  _ Because  _ of him. . ." Steve trailed off, watching as a bird skimmed the lake’s surface and sent ripples out across water. "It’s always been him."

Now that he had named it, had faced it for the first time, a sense of relief washed through him. A fog had cleared, and now he saw things for how they truly were. In the before times, they had danced around one another. They had acknowledged it and ignored it in equal measure. Had they ever really spoken openly and frankly about how they felt? No, he supposed they hadn’t.

But then he remembered. They had come close once. It was before he went to basic, before he had even been drafted. The sun had been shining and their apartment was a hotbox, he remembered.

The memory resurfaced slowly and drew him in.

"I don’t see myself ever getting married," Bucky said. He was staring out the open window, with his hands on hips and his shirt tails untucked. A dark V of sweat-stained his back.

"Now why would you say that, Buck?" Steve asked absentmindedly from his spot on the floor. He was focussed on a sketch of Bucky but he couldn’t get the lay of his hair right.

"Ach, it’s just not for me. None of these dames have that - that - that  _ something _ , you know?" He started pacing back and forth in front of the window, gesticulating with his hands.

"You just haven’t met the right gal. Just you wait. There’ll be someone," Steve mused, parroting the words people always said in situations like this. He didn’t look up but was aware of his friend’s perpetual movement in the peripheries of his vision.

"Someone maybe," Bucky sighed, coming to an abrupt halt, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "Say, whatcha drawing?"

He flopped to the floor next to him, long legs sprawled out of him. He bumped their shoulders together and craned his neck to see what he was drawing.

"Aww, s’nothin’. It’s stupid," he said, angling the sketchbook away from his friend and hiding it into his chest.

"Oh no you don’t. You’re the only artist now. Let me live vicariously through you." Bucky reached over him and wrestled the book free from Steve’s clutches. He tried vainly to hold it away from him but it was no good. Bucky was stronger, had longer arms. Once he had it, he shuffled through the pages to find the latest offering. He studied it, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Stevie? This is  _ good _ . Why wouldn’t you show me?"

Steve scrunched his nose and shrugged.

"It’s embarrassing," he mumbled before adding, "And you’re a shitty model. You never stay still."

He didn’t feel the need to add that he could, if he wanted, draw Bucky’s face entirely from memory. That was one thing he didn’t need to know.

Bucky creased, laughter rocking him. 

"Well, maybe I would if I knew, but I see that that hasn’t stopped you before now." He had continued to rifle through the pages and was examining page after page of careful sketches and drawings, all of which had Bucky as their model: his face, his hands, his back. Bucky awake, asleep and laughing. It was all there.

"Limited options. You’re the most interesting thing in this apartment," he said with another shrug. It wasn’t quite a lie but it wasn’t quite the truth either.

"I’m keeping this by the way. This is mine now," said Bucky, holding up the sketchbook and tapping the cover.

Steve snorted.

"Be my guest. I have plenty."

"Punk."

"Jerk."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Bucky examining the contents of the sketchbook and Steve staring moodily at his pencil: preoccupied. He twirled it around his long fingers. Below them, the city bustled, the sounds carrying up to the open living room window.

"Did you mean it?" He blurted the question out before he could stop himself. The question pestered him. It demanded to be asked and, Steve realised, he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew the answer.

"What?"

"That you’ll never get married." 

Bucky looked up and met his gaze. His brow furrowed and he wet his bottom lip. 

"Maybe one day," he said gruffly, looking away again and lifting one shoulder. "With the right partner. Besides, I couldn’t leave you now, could I."

He bumped their shoulders together and threw a warm, heavy arm around him. Steve settled back into the embrace and felt Bucky rest his chin on the top of his head.

"Till the end of the line?"

"Till the end of the line."

Till the end of the line. Bucky had told him that the day he’d buried his ma, and after that, it became their rallying call. They tossed it back and forth so much it was a reflex. Sometimes it was a joke. Other times it was a promise. It was whatever they needed it to be.

"Steve?" Natasha roused him. "What do you want to do next?"

She stared at him, unflinching, her coffee discarded.

"I said I wanted to root them out. So, that’s what I’m going to do." Steve swallowed thickly and met her eyes. She nodded.

"And Bucky?" She fixed her jaw and lifted her chin as she asked the question, never wavering.

"He’s in the wind like you said. I don’t think we’ll be able to find him unless he wants to be found." Steve paused here. It hurt to admit but it was true. "So, we go to Europe. The bases there won’t be as directly affected by Hydra’s collapse as the ones in the US. We take the hurt to them."

"To Europe then. We better start packing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah I don't even know what to say. My heart hurts for them all.
> 
> Thank you for all the kind comments, boundless enthusiasm and the yelling last week. I know we're going through it but at least it's together right? >.>
> 
> Much love. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)


	11. Budapest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Heat flushed through Steve. The dry pages whispered their dark secrets as he thumbed through each file. He shuddered, mouth dry. There were pictures he could barely bring himself to look at. He stared out the page at him. Except, it wasn’t him. It was the carved out husk that Hydra had made of him._
> 
> || The team have spent the better part of two years burning through Hydra bases. Exhausted, they arrive in Budapest.

**September 2012 - San Sebastian**

“Clint we need cover!”

Bullets whizzed past their ears, exploded into the concrete. From across the hallway, a now very blonde Natasha threw a grenade into a black swarm of guns and combat armour. 

“Steve, there’s too many. We have to find another way out.”

_ Ka-boom _ .

The building shook. Chunks of ceiling and concrete rained down.

“Fuck.”

**December 2012 - Marseille**

“You’re going to have to hold him down.”

“Tasha -”

“Just do it. Deep breath, old man.”

Crack.

A muffled wail, bitten back. 

Leather. Oil. Iron.

Stars, then blackness.

_ “There are reports coming out of Russia claiming that an ex-Hydra base was razed to the ground in the early hours of Thursday morning. It is unclear if this is connected to the recent spate of raids through Western Europe but early indications point to a potential second cell of rogue agents.  _

_ Sources close to the incident claim that the base housed at least half a dozen so-called ‘super soldiers’. There were no survivors. More on this story and the recent Nomad data dump at 10.” _

**February 2013 - Vichy**

Blood slicked Steve’s hands. They shook. The smell of dirt and rain and pine was in his nose. Familiar. Alien. 

Beneath his fingers, a fallen soldier. 

“Steve. Tourniquet,  _ now _ ! I’m  _ not  _ losing him.” Natasha’s voice lanced through him, fierce and feral.

An arrow, a belt, a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. 

_ One twist. Two twist. Three twist. Four. Who’s that knocking on death’s door? _

A shiver rolled down Steve’s spine - someone walking over his grave. The forest was empty, filled only with the wind and Clint’s strangled moans.

**June 2013 - Berlin**

The base was clear and eerily quiet. Their footsteps echoed around the hall. Shield up and eyes sweeping the scene, Steve’s stomach flip flopped. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. They should have met somebody by now. By his side, Natasha crept forward, gun raised. They exchanged a look. She lifted a shoulder and urged him on. 

Room after room was empty. There were no personnel, no agents, no black masked goons for them to take down. 

In the main control room, the floor was littered with bullet casings. Dried blood crusted the concrete where bodies had fallen but the bodies were nowhere to be seen. It was summer, but the chill of too much death was in the air. Steve rolled his shoulders, heart in his mouth. 

They found them taped to the control panel. 

Coordinates. Written in a familiar looping scrawl. 

_ He _ had been here. His ghost. His steely-eyed saviour. Beneath the black Hydra cast-offs he wore instead of the usual red, white, and blue,  _ his _ dog tags burned. 

  
  


**_@starspangledfan_ **

_ another hydra base up in flames last night. when are cap and his crew going to show up??? how are they even staying hidden??  _ **_#hydraxfiles #nomad_ **

**_@widowswife_ **

**_@starspangledfan_ ** _ did you see the latest update??? i always knew thatcher was an evil cow but this just confirms it. _

**_@starpangledfan_ **

**_@widowswife_ ** _ check out  _ **_@capsshield_ ** **’** _ s analysis on reddit. he thinks they’re about to hit eastern europe next. _

**October 2013 - Zagreb**

This was some bad intel. Some real fucking bad intel. 

The base was  _ supposed _ to be empty. 

It was not. 

Steve hurled his shield across the bare stone room. The faceless men tumbled like skittles. With a zing, he re-called the shield to his arm. 

He fought like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Long hair fell into his eyes and blood was thick in his beard. Bones crunched beneath his fists. Kicks. Flips. Spins. He barrelled through Hydra agents without mercy. Blood from the bite of a bullet oozed from his shoulder. The pain meant nothing to him.

“Steve!” 

Two shots and Natasha ran towards him. A quick motion of her hand and he knew what she wanted. He crouched. He braced. In one fluid motion, she leapt through the air - a graceful jete - onto his waiting shield and he launched her towards the oncoming wave. A twist and her thighs wrapped around a waiting neck, bringing the agent to the floor. Her gun flashed. Three more crumpled.

They were locked in a deadly dance. He was blunt. She was sharp. The shield and the dagger. Synchronised and lethal. 

**February 2014 - Northern Sokovia**

“You’re okay. We’re not going to hurt you.” Murmured words, gaunt cheeks, skittish eyes, red hands, a silver flash. The cells were cramped and dirty. The girl stared him down with one glowing hand outstretched. The boy jittered at her shoulder, ready to run. “We can get you to people who will help.”

“He said you could be trusted, the man with the metal arm. Is it true?” rasped the girl. The pointed questions, the clipped Sokovian accent, the fearless tilt to her chin, she reminded him of Sasha Novak. 

Outside, there was snow on the ground. A bitter wind blew through the castle’s halls but adrenaline heated Steve’s blood.

“If he says it, it must be,” he murmured, stomach twisting and mouth dry.

Ruby sparks danced between her fingers. “Let me see.” 

She held his gaze in her own, unwavering. Her silver haired brother looked between them, swallowing whatever retorts rose on his tongue. He had a hand on her waist, prepared to whisk them away in an instant. From behind, there was a rustle of clothes as Natasha and Clint shifted from one uneasy foot to the other.

"Steve," warned Clint, voice low and approaching something dangerous. 

"Go and secure the sceptre.” Quick, brusque, he threw the order over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the twins. “We're fine, aren't we?" 

Two wary nods and a ribbon of red crept out to touch his temple. 

_ "The Silver Tongue Inquiry hit yet another roadblock yesterday. The much maligned inquiry has been beset by issues since its inception in the wake of the Shield scandal and this newest setback is drawing criticism from across the political spectrum. _

_ Senator Calloway of New York was quick to make her feelings known by tweeting, ‘If Alexander Pierce thinks he can evade justice, he has another thing coming. He cannot hide behind his money forever.’  _

_ Without any of the main players, many are speculating that this scene may be doomed to fail and there will be no justice for Hydra's crimes." _

**June 2014 - Prague**

They were camped out in a dingy hostel on the outskirts of the city. The room was cramped and stuffy. There was damp in the corners and the carpet was grey, patchy and threadbare, and coming away from the grimy skirting boards in places. Paper peeled from the walls in depressing ribbons. The three of them were examining the map, all crowded around the same narrow bed. In the background, a crackly radio ran an interview with Tony Stark. The interviewer was needling him, and he was getting more and more irate as their questioning continued. 

“Do you think Captain Rogers knew about your connection with the so-called Winter Soldier before releasing the 2012 data dump?” they probed.

“I’ve analysed the data dump and come to my own conclusions,” he snapped. “And, I don’t need to share those with you.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Does anybody?”

Steve reached across and flipped the radio off, unable to listen any further. He  _ hadn’t _ known but there was no time to fixate or dwell on what was going on back home when they had so much work to do where they were. If his focus slipped for even a second he would be consumed by the need to pick apart the fact that Hydra had infiltrated the very foundations of the country. It hurt too much. And, it raised too many prickly questions. Had anyone known? Had Fury known? Had  _ Peggy  _ known? Had it all been covered up from the very beginning? The answers to these questions haunted him, and he didn’t know if he actually wanted to find them.

" _ It’s like some weird Hansel and Gretel situation, _ " signed Clint, pulling the map closer. " _ Only this version sucks because we don’t get to eat the candy house. _ "

" _ The witch tries to eat Hansel and Gretel. It’s not a happy story, Clint _ ," Natasha replied, frowning at him with a mix of incredulity and despair.

" _ Sure, maybe, but at least they got to eat the candy house _ ," he pressed, fixated. His bottom lip jutted out and his eyelids drooped. His hearing aids sat discarded on the bedside table.

" _ Don’t forget murder by oven _ ," chimed in Steve, signing absent-mindedly as he looked over their papers, brows knitted together. 

Clint had a point.  _ He  _ had led them on a merry chase around the backyard of Europe, always three steps ahead of them. In some ways it was helpful. There was less fighting, which made data collection easy. Usually, all they had to do was pitch up and plugin. But finally, the trail was coming to an end. Would this mean they could finally be reunited? Or would he continue to slip through his fingers?

" _ Okay, this last base is . . . _ " Steve trailed off as he guided his index finger across the map they had spread across the rumpled bedspread. " _ Our last base is in Budapest _ ."

Natasha groaned and threw her eyes heavenward.

"You know, I was really hoping that the next time I got to go to Budapest I’d be able to enjoy myself - maybe go to a ruin bar, take a walking tour," she grumbled.

"Shame that’s not your lot in life," yawned Clint and Natasha threw a pillow at his face.

Later, once Clint was snoring, Steve found Natasha curled up on the floor next to the bed, going over the route they would take to Budapest in the morning. He joined her, balancing two mugs.

“I brought you coffee,” he said, passing her a mug. He had made it as strong and as sweet as he possibly could in the tiny kitchenette. It sloshed, spilling over the sides, droplets spattering across the papers on the floor. 

“Thanks.” She received it with a grateful smile. Wrapping both hands around the mug, she took a long sip and sighed: exhausted. “Looks like things are finally coming to an end.”

“Yeah. Hard to believe it.” 

Scrubbing a hand through his beard, Steve gazed sightlessly at the papers and files - the sum of almost two years work, the sum of this entire thankless endeavour. They had been fighting so long and so hard. Sure, there had been days where Clint and Natasha were the last people in the world he wanted to see but they were also the only people he could bear to be with day in and day out. Who else would understand what it was that they had been though? Well, he could think of one, but Steve couldn’t think about him for long. He pushed his name away. To name him was to summon him, and to summon him was to break down the last fortifications of his besieged mind.

Throughout it all, they had done some good, he thought. It was there, peppered amongst the destruction and blood. The twins from Sokovia were safe at least. Natasha had used her web of contacts to get them and the sceptre to Nick Fury. He hadn’t wanted to involve Fury but Natasha trusted him, and Steve trusted her. It was enough. It had to be.

Steve let out a long breath and felt himself sag. He didn’t know how to feel. All he felt at that moment was numb. His eyes saw without seeing and he was desperately tired but knew that he wouldn’t sleep. 

“What will we do once we’re done?” he asked.

This was the elephant in the room that none of them wanted to acknowledge. What was left for them once they cleared this last base and exposed its secrets to the world? Who would they be? Did they still have a place? Could they really go back to New York and pick up back where they left off? 

No, first they had to face the inquiry.

“I don’t know,” Natasha sighed, glazed and hollow. “I don’t even know if we can go home. If we go back it’ll be open season” 

She sounded terribly small and as she hugged her knees, her ashy blonde hair fell over her shoulder. Steve could see the bumps of her spine peeping out from underneath her overly baggy t-shirt. Maybe with this all over, they would finally be able to rest. But even as he considered this line of thought, Steve knew that true rest would evade him until he found  _ him _ again. Wherever he was.

“If we go home the inquiry will want our heads - and if we don’t have  _ him _ who knows what then.”

“Trial in absentia,” Natasha answered reflexively. She knew who he meant. 

Steve hummed and downed the last of his coffee. “Be better if he was there.”

“Would it?”

“No, probably not.”

Lying on top of the stack of papers was the note with the Budapest coordinates. He picked it up. Written underneath the coordinates was a message: ‘ _ The end of the line _ ’. It was the first and only message he had left him in 18 months. Steve traced the words with the tip of his finger.

_ The end of the line. _

He remembered. He had to. Why else would he leave a note saying that? The significance of those words wasn’t lost on Steve. They were coated in layers of meaning, of promises and care. And  _ he _ knew it. But what was he really trying to say? Did he plan on coming out of the shadows? Or, was this his way of saying that he was done, and Steve would need to let him go? The thought twisted his stomach and made him feel sick. Surely not. 

He couldn’t stay away now they were done.

“That mean something to you?” Natasha asked in a soft murmur, pulling him from his thoughts. She nodded at the paper.

“Somethin’ we said to one another as kids,” he sighed and handed her the note so she could take a closer look.

Natasha hummed but didn’t say anything, hollow eyes glossy and unseeing. 

As it turned out, they didn’t initially see an awful lot of Budapest itself. Their hunt took them away from the striking architecture and wide boulevards of the city centre to the rolling hills of Pest County. The facility was tucked away amongst the trees and, from the outside, looked remarkably unassuming. For all intents and purposes, it looked like an old army barracks. But they had long since learned not to judge these particular books by their covers. 

They parked up on a secluded road, away from any prying eyes, and made their way through the trees towards the base. Clint found his high ground to monitor the perimeter while Steve and Natasha searched inside. 

The day was clear, and there was nobody around, but Steve felt uneasy. He was on edge. He had to fight the compulsion to look over his shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. A shudder vibrated down his spine, rattling his bones. It felt like he was being watched. There was no need for him to feel like this. All the intel indicated that the base was empty. So, he shook it off. It was normal to feel nervous during a mission. 

Shield raised, and with Natasha flanking him, Steve pushed through the base doors. Rusted hinges screeched in protest, and the bottom of the door scraped against rough concrete. It smelt of damp and burst pipes, and there was a scrabbling in the walls that told them that the bases’ only inhabitants were rats.

Just like so many of the other facilities on this Hansel and Gretel chase, everyone had been dispatched. The only evidence of a struggle was a smattering of bullet holes in the main command room. Otherwise, it was clean.

While Natasha did her thing with the computers, Steve looked for any hard copy evidence. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. There had been no piece of paper left taped to the computers with coordinates this time. There was nothing of that sort anywhere. Was this how they would leave each other now their trail had run its course? Would the only thing connecting them be the dog tags which Steve still wore beneath his makeshift uniform?

And Steve couldn’t help but be disappointed. Part of him had been hoping beyond hope that there would be something here that would bring them together once again. Hell, he’d even let himself entertain the thought that he might have been there in person. It was foolish. He didn’t want that last note to be ‘the end of the line’ for them. He’d liked the notes, if only because they told him that he was still alive. Without them, he’d have no way of knowing.

As he moved through the barren halls, he came upon an office. It was a simple, understated affair with only a desk, a chair and three locked filing cabinets lining the back wall. Steve broke each lock with a sharp hit from his shield. Inside were dossiers. Most appeared to be administrative, but in the very last drawer, he found several files dated from 1947 to 1952. They were all in Russian, but, thanks to Natasha’s careful tutelage, he now had more than a passing grasp of the language.

_ ‘Asset training and conditioning’, ‘Experiment #45: Electroshock Therapy’, ‘Winter Soldier test mission #3’ _ etc. and so they went on. There were ten in total, all concerning the same subject.

Heat flushed through Steve. The dry pages whispered their dark secrets as he thumbed through each file. He shuddered, mouth dry. There were pictures he could barely bring himself to look at.  _ He  _ stared out the page at him. Except, it wasn’t him. It was the carved out husk that Hydra had made of him. 

He stowed the files away in a bag, unable to stomach the details, and made his way back to Natasha. She was bent over the computer typing furiously. The clack, clack, clack of keys thundered through the empty room.

"Anything useful?" he asked, looking over her shoulder. Multiple windows were up on the screen as she input line after line of code.

"From what I’ve seen so far, yes. Plenty of evidence concerning your missing person’s case if that’s what you mean," she drawled, flicking her fringe from her eyes. "Two minutes and I'll be done. Did you find anything?"

"Yeah, some old files. It seems like this was a primary base for ‘Asset management’ after the war," he said, leaning against the table next to Natasha and drumming his fingers against the edge of his shield as it rested against his legs. 

"We have quite the update on our hands it seems." She grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

Steve made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. Unlike Natasha and Clint, he didn’t particularly enjoy blasting their updates across the internet. While he knew it was necessary for people to have all the information, he hated the fallout. 

But this? This would be yet more grizzly details of what had happened after the fall from the train, of missions completed while under Hydra’s influence. It was all well and good subjecting themselves to the scrutiny, but he hated subjecting his friend to the same. 

The rest of the afternoon passed without a hitch, and they made it back to their hostel a little after 6pm. On the spur of the moment, they decided to splurge on some private rooms in a little hipster place on the Buda side of the city for a few days. After almost two years living out of grimy back rooms, they needed a break. They needed to celebrate this milestone. 

The hostel was located down a side street in an old pre-war building. There was a cobbled courtyard with a bar out the back that had twinkling fairy lights and colourful bunting strung up from the bushes. Inside, all the floors were multi-coloured tile mosaics and old fashioned paper covered the walls. On the balcony outside the kitchen, there were pots of fresh herbs, and the kitchen cupboards were filled with handmade pottery. It was quaint. It was warm. It was so deliciously welcome.

Steve’s room was in the attic and had an attached bathroom. His window looked down onto the courtyard, and he calculated that, if necessary, it would be an easy jump to the roof of the next building. It was a good spot.

Clint and Natasha took a room on the floor below. They decided to make the most of the few days respite and to take in a bit of city. Before leaving for the night, they bid him farewell, wearing the faces of a middle-aged couple. The city sights were calling, and Steve suspected that Natasha was gunning for that drink.

Steve, on the other hand, had no such plans. He spent a few hours leafing through the files they had retrieved from the base with a growing sense of horror. Hydra had been meticulous in their note-taking. No detail of their torture was spared. Poison, electrocution, sleep deprivation was all par for the course.  _ His  _ name, his real name, appeared only once in all ten files. Any time they referred to him, it was as ‘the Soldier’ or ‘the Asset’, or sometimes, ‘the American’. It was enough to turn his stomach. To them, he had been less than human. Only a weapon.

“Oh, what did they do to you,” he murmured, letting his head fall back against the wall. 

There was an undeniable tightness to his throat as he rubbed both his hands across his face, fingers scraping through his beard. It killed him. Although deep down, he knew it that none of this was his fault, he still dragged himself over those coals. That was just what he did. It was a familiar self-flagellation.

Eventually, when he could take no more, he set it all aside. The desire for a shower and a night in a bed that didn't have weird inexplicable lumps overwhelmed his desire to keep reading. He took his time showering, letting the scalding water beat against his face and back. Steam lapped against the edges of the room, and he took long, deliberate breaths in and out like he was a kid with a head cold again. He took care in washing himself: lathering the soap and slathering it on until he was slippery and covered in bubbles. 

It was excessive. He knew this. But he was going to take advantage of this time either way. Steve slid his dog tags back around his neck as he stepped out the shower, even after all this time, he couldn’t bear to be without them. Clutching a towel around his waist with one hand, and using the other to dry off his hair, he shouldered through the door back into his room. The steam pooled at his feet like mist as it hit the cool tiles. 

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. 

He was not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I posted this without any of the usual shenanigans of summary and end notes to begin with because apparently me and this chapter are at odds with one another. It's been a shitemare from start to finish lmao. 
> 
> I had a minor meltdown last week and rewrote the first half of the chapter so *i hope you all enjoyed!* 
> 
> Now we have that out of the way -insert 'it's happening' gif- here! Gah.
> 
> See you next week!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)


	12. The Revenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Who the hell are you?" snarled Steve. He stood in a fighting stance; knees soft, right leg pulled back, shoulders mirroring his feet, hips square to the intruder.  
>  "Depends on who you ask."_
> 
> || A ghost from Steve’s past appears before him.

A broad-shouldered man in a baseball cap had his back to him, peering out the window. Steve was frozen. His heart jumped into overdrive. It thundered in his ears. All his weapons were laid out on the bed, the shield tossed carelessly underneath, much closer to the intruder than him. The papers were there too, piled up neatly on the nightstand. 

The man cocked his head. His shoulders tensed. But he didn't turn. 

"Who the hell are you?" snarled Steve. He stood in a fighting stance; knees soft, right leg pulled back, shoulders mirroring his feet, hips square to the intruder. 

"Depends on who you ask." 

The world tilted. He  _ knew  _ that voice. He would know that voice anywhere. It was coded into his very DNA.

Guarded and deliberate, the man turned, eyes fixed to the floor. The brim of his cap obscured his face. Until it didn’t.

"Bucky." 

His name was a sigh, a prayer, a release from 2 years on the run. 

"That’s one of my names." 

Bucky’s mouth was a hard slash, and Steve could see his jaw clenching. Despite the stiffness in his demeanour, he was still. There was none of the wildness that Steve remembered from their previous engagement. His eyes didn’t dart around the room looking for exits but stayed trained on his face with unwavering determination. It sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. 

"You’ve been busy," Bucky observed, gesturing towards the files and papers. "Getting caught up on the last 70 years have you?"

Steve wet his lips, looked at the files then back to Bucky.

"You could say that," he croaked.

They stood as if stuck on either side of a great canyon, a vast yawning expanse between them that Steve didn’t know how to cross. 

Bucky smirked, shook his head, and cast his eye around the room. The wolfish quirk to his lips was achingly familiar. Steve couldn’t count the number of times he’d been on the receiving end of one of those smirks. God, he didn’t realise how much he’d missed it. It tugged at him, pulled at him from his navel. All he wanted to do was close the gap between them. Instead, he asked in a voice that was hoarse with his quiet desperation:

"What’re you doing here, Buck?" 

A deep thrumming vibration rolled through Steve’s body. He tried to swallow but found that he couldn’t. He had imagined this moment a thousand times over. And then some. Though he would never admit it, in the safety of darkness it had been the story he told himself as he tried to drop off to sleep each night. There had been versions where they ran to each other sobbing. There had been others where it descended into an argument full of gnashing teeth. There had even been versions where once appearing to him, Bucky turned tail and ran. In all his imaginings he had never once considered a scenario where he was naked but for a towel. 

Except he didn’t care that this was how their reunion was staged because Bucky was really here in front of him. He devoured him like a starving man, eyes raking over him. From across the room, Bucky appeared to do the same, unapologetic and open in this one action.With furious fervour, Steve was already trying to commit him to memory because life had a horrible habit of forcing them apart. 

Steve shivered again. The water droplets scattered across his skin had cooled, and there was a breeze leaking through a crack in the window. He weighed up his options but decided that Bucky was neither a flight risk nor a risk to him so he moved from his spot by the bathroom door to the duffel bag spilling its guts onto the desk in the corner. Bucky’s eyes followed every move. Sharp and bright, they burned into the bare skin of his back as he rummaged for some clean clothes. 

The snare drum beat of his heart pounded through him as he sifted through his meager belongings. It was in his fingertips. Behind him, the floorboards creaked - Bucky shifting his weight from one foot to the next. Steve’s hands trembled. He wondered if he should feel embarrassed - for changing so unapologetically, but, after all this time, after everything they had both been through, it was the least of their worries. Steeling himself, he pulled on clean sweats and a greying t-shirt that had once been white and threw the towel back into the bathroom.

"Well?" he prompted when Bucky still hadn’t answered, hands on his hips.

Bucky swallowed, throat bobbing. The mischief had faded from his eyes. He turned his back to Steve again, pulled off his baseball cap and looked out the window at the revellers in the courtyard below. Whoops and yells and the tinkle of glass drifted up to them. Bucky leaned on the windowsill, shoulders bowed. 

"I’m tired of running." There was a beat of silence, then, "I want to come home."

It was all Steve needed to hear. One, two, three steps. Bucky turned to meet him. As one, they each grasped the other by the back of the neck till their foreheads touched. Eyes closed, Steve shuddered at the heat of his touch. 

"Fuck, I missed you, Steve," Bucky growled, raw and hoarse.

At the sound of his name in Bucky’s mouth, all the tension in his shoulders and back melted away. He could breathe again. The chains binding him to the mountain broke with a clang, a curse had been lifted, and it felt like finally, he too would finally be able to come home. 

"I missed you too," he said, gruff, his eyes still closed. "So goddamn much."

Eyes pricking, he took several long, deliberate breaths. By degrees, they moved closer to one another until their bodies were flush. Bucky’s fingers dug into the back of Steve’s neck, tugging his still-damp hair, as if he was trying to pull him so close they would have to share one body. Bucky blazed; his heat flooded through Steve like he was the sun on a scorching summer’s day.

They stood like that for several minutes. Neither said anything. The universe had shrunk. The entire world was this attic room in back alley Budapest. Steve sagged, Bucky too, but like two old trees that had each grown up around the other, they supported one another - perfectly balanced.

Four raps on the door startled them to attention. In sync, they turned and stared. Steve rested a hand on Bucky’s arm and pressed a finger to his lips. 

"Steve? You up? That’s us back," Natasha called through the door.

"Yeah!" he called back, clearing his throat and willing his voice not to betray him. "Did you have a nice night? You didn’t get shot this time?"

Natasha laughed through the wood, low and throaty. She sounded buoyant.

"Ha, not this time. Night, Steve. Sleep well!" 

"Not going to tell her you have company?" Steve froze. The husky question was an out, he realised. He could give him up if he wanted. But that was never going to be an option. It hadn’t been an option before and it certainly wasn’t one now. 

"Naw. I’d like to keep you to myself tonight," he murmured, squeezing Bucky’s arm and relishing the feel of him beneath his fingers. Then, adding in a louder voice, he called, "G’night, Nat."

She bid him goodnight once more then turned to leave. They listened to her retreating footsteps, eyes locked together. When they heard a bang from downstairs they let out a collective sigh.

"When you said we were going to the future, I bet this isn’t what you had in mind?" 

Bucky chuckled.

"I was hoping for more flying cars and jet packs."

"You know what, me too."

They held eye contact for a second longer, but then they both ducked their heads and looked away, laughing. It was an uneasy thing, cratered and uneven, filled with the terrible truths of all that had happened since that day on the train. But neither of them was about to acknowledge that quite yet. It was enough to laugh, and pretend that that was enough to ease the tension.

"Here, help me move this shit - we can get a seat," said Steve, breaking away from their protective bubble and beginning to gather up his things from the bed. 

Moments later, Steve sat propped up against the pillows with one knee drawn up. He hugged it loosely and watched Bucky perched at the foot of the bed. In their stillness and silence, Steve could finally examine his face. There weren’t many differences between this face and the one of his memories, a few extra lines maybe, but the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips, and the glint in his clear, grey eyes were all the same. As young men, he had never really seen Bucky with a beard. At most, he’d worn a few days stubble but by and large, he’d stayed resolutely clean-shaven. Steve found that the short scruff suited him. 

He’d peeled away his jacket and hoodie too and sat with the sleeves of his red henley pushed up past his elbows. In the low light, his arm glinted faintly. He sat with his elbows leaning on his thighs, mismatched hands hanging down between his knees. Steve traced the contours of Bucky’s forearms with hungry eyes, following the outlines of his muscles up to his broad shoulders and down the long line of his back. 

"So," he said eventually when neither of them had spoken for several minutes.

"So," repeated Bucky. He glanced over at Steve, eyes soft and one side of his mouth hitching.

"I suppose I should ask - where you been?"

"Here and there."

"Buck, come on," Steve sighed, drawing out his name into two long syllables that he savoured as he nudged Bucky’s thigh with his foot. Bucky rocked ever so slightly and a smile ghosted across his lips.

"You want the long version or the abridged one?" he asked, looking at his hands. 

Steve wanted everything and more. He wanted to crack him open, to tear him apart in search of answers. He wanted to take and take, and gorge himself in everything  _ Bucky _ . Instead, he said:

"Let’s just go with the last 18 months." He spoke with a deep, resigned sigh, leaned his head back against the wall and waited to see what he would say. 

Bucky rested back on his palms and stared at the cracks in the ceiling plaster. 

"You broke me something good that day you showed up in D.C., you know that" he started, shaking his head. He paused, squinted and wet his bottom lip. He had a distinct rasp to his voice, as if he wasn't used to speaking. "I don’t know that I can explain it. You said my name, Becca’s name,  _ your  _ name and you were there in your old field uniform with those big sad eyes; it was like my head cracked open and everything came spilling out at once."

Bucky still spoke with his hands. The gestures were smaller than they used to be but Steve recognised them all the same. He had paused over Becca’s name too, tapping his chest right over his heart without even thinking about it.

"Where did you go?"

"Here and there," he said again. "I laid low in the city for a few days trying to get my head on straight. It felt like a hot poker had been stuck straight into my brain and swirled about. I’d get flashes, snapshots. Vicious nightmares mostly, but then -” 

He came up short and cleared his throat. Bucky frowned and ran a hand through his hair as he considered what to say next. When he met Steve’s inquisitive eyes, a furious flush rose up in his face. 

“I’d see you,” he murmured and raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking without seeing as his memories played behind his eyes. “Over and over again, I’d see you more vivid than anything else. You were the one thing that felt -" He searched for the word, circling the fingers of his right hand up near his temple. "Real," he settled on. "You were  _ real  _ and  _ essential  _ and it didn’t take long for me to realise that everything you’d said was true. Of course, you’d blown the world to shit by then so it wasn’t like I could go to your apartment."

Steve was transfixed, unable to look away. It felt like a dream. Although he had held him, felt his solid warmth beneath his fingers, had had that woodsy,  _ Bucky _ smell in his nose, he couldn’t help but think that he might suddenly wake up and this would all disappear again. Seeing him again had always felt like a far off goal that he would never truly reach. 

Bucky continued his story, working methodically through the riot filled days that followed the fall of SHIELD and the exposure of Hydra to the world, to the weeks spent hiking cross country. He posed as a day labourer at farms in exchange for bed and board before taking off into the night once more. There were days spent huddled over rickety, dial-up computers and examining yellow-spotted history books in local libraries in a bid to make sense of everything swirling about his brain.

"I was so goddamn angry all the time." Bucky’s voice was hoarse, full of pent up bitterness. "I wanted revenge. So, when I saw what you were doing I wanted a piece of the action."

He headed west, with a set of forged papers and 50 bucks in his pocket, and tore through Russia.

"That first base was an accident. I got carried away," he admitted, full of regret and an undisguised disgust. "But I knew if anything in that base got out there would be hell to pay."

"The other super soldiers?" 

Bucky nodded, mouth curling like he tasted something sour. He gulped and ran his hands through his hair once more. It was still long and fell into his eyes as he spoke. 

“How did you find us?” Steve asked. He’d been wondering while Bucky told his tale, how he had caught up with them.

He shrugged, a twisted wince scrunching his face. 

“I just knew,” he said, giving Steve a side-long glance. “If I focussed hard enough there was this  _ feeling _ \- knew that if I followed it, then I’d find myself where I needed to be. Plus, you guys weren’t exactly subtle. ” He huffed. “Call it a really extravagant gut feeling, I don’t know.”

Steve nodded. Sometimes, Bucky just  _ knew _ things. Things he didn’t always have any right in knowing. It had been the same before, he didn’t see any reason why ii wouldn’t be the same now.

"When I found you that first time, you’d just left Vichy. You’d taken a beating, a bad one, outnumbered something stupid and somehow you still managed to punch your way out of it." Bucky paused here and leaned forward on his elbows again, head hanging. In a gruff undertone, he added, "You were running headlong into fights that could get you killed. So, I decided that wherever you were headed, I would get there first."

"Did it help?" asked Steve, raising an eyebrow. Protecting them was a cover, an artifice to hide the real reason he had spent the better part of two years burning through Hydra bases.

Bucky snorted, laughing humorlessly. 

"Ha. No," he spat, shaking his head. "Vindication one moment, burning self-hatred the next, but it was more than just revenge. I saw what you were doing. I saw all the stuff you were putting out there. People deserve to know the truth and, I -" He broke off, grunted and shifted until he faced Steve head on. "I thought that there would be a modicum of atonement for all my cardinal sins if I could contribute even a fraction to your cause."

Silence settled around them like a blanket: thick and heavy. Bucky fiddled with the duvet cover, a deep frown pulling at his brow.

"What changed?" whispered Steve, not wanting to disturb the stillness. He felt as though they had come to the crux of the matter. Why, after all this time, had he appeared to him now?

"I’m tired. I’m tired of running, I’m tired of the guilt, I’m tired of feeling like a chewed up rag of a human being. I have nothing.  _ I am nothing, _ but with you, I figured I could be  _ something _ ,"Bucky rasped, crumpling the sheets in his metal fist and glaring at his hands.

On impulse, Steve reached out and covered Bucky’s hands with his own; one warm and soft, the other cool and unyielding. He flinched ever so slightly but relaxed into Steve’s touch almost immediately. Steve gathered up their hands and scooted forward until there were mere inches between them once more. He pressed his thumb into the soft crease in Bucky’s right hand until it covered that broken, jagged line that had only hinted at the trouble that would plague his life.

"You are not nothing," he urged, tone fierce and insistent as he searched to meet Bucky's downcast gaze. "You’re everything. To  _ me _ , you are everything. There’s no me without you, Bucky."

Their eyes met and Steve could see the gathering storm lurking just beneath the surface. 

"I’ve done terrible things," he murmured, tried to extract his hands, but Steve hung on.

"That wasn’t you."

"Yes, it was. They’re my memories, the blood is on my hands."

"Hydra’s hands," Steve corrected. 

"People will want justice for my crimes."

"Then let them come. If they come for you, then they come for me too. I’ve torn down one world for you, what’s another? We could be universes, realities, apart and I would find my way to you over and over again if I knew you were out there somewhere. God himself wouldn’t dare keep me from you now.” The words came in a desperate rush, falling over themselves and landing with a thump between them. “Hell, he could come down from Heaven right here and now to rip you from me again and I’d fight him too. Because it’s true, Buck. I’d fight the whole goddamn Heavenly Host all if it meant I could be with you." 

Steve was overwrought, barely able to think of anything but Bucky. How long had he waited for this? Nothing outside of this room existed anymore. It had been consumed by the void, and they were the only beings in the universe.

Bucky’s eyes burned into his. 

"I’m not the man you used to know." Bucky’s voice had lowered to a horrified, embittered whisper. He spoke as if trying to make Steve understand that the Bucky he had known before was lost, unmade, broken and discarded. 

Steve, for all his faults, wasn’t completely stupid. He knew that the man before him wasn’t the same one he had grown up with. It stung in a way. Part of him was sorry he had never been able to love that Bucky the way he deserved. But, there was no changing the past.  _ This  _ Bucky was here now. He might have been shattered to pieces these last 70 years but as Steve looked at him, he didn’t see anything broken. Through sheer strength of will, he had remade himself, pulled all those pieces back together and brought himself to Steve like an offering. Bucky was the most beautiful mosaic that Steve had ever seen.

"I know you’re not,” Steve murmured. He raised a tentative hand to cup Bucky’s cheek. Brushing the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone, he looked deep into his eyes and said with a biting conviction, “But, neither am I."

Bucky melted into his touch, soothed by his understanding. Their foreheads come together again, noses brushing. Steve’s hand slid into Bucky’s hair. They were extensions of one another, sharing one breath. After a long moment, Bucky leaned back a fraction. Steve’s hand fell from his hair and trailed down his neck till it fell back into their lap. Bucky pulled his eyes from Steve’s, skating down his face, pausing on his mouth before coming to rest on his chest. He hooked a finger around the chain that disappeared below Steve’s v-neck and tugged it free. The dog tags clinked together softly but in the reverent hush of the attic room, it was thunderous. Eyes widening as he realised what they were, he wrenched his gaze back to Steve and he thought he could hear his heart break at such an anguished sight.

“These are mine.”

Steve gave a small, piteous smile. 

“Had to keep you close somehow.”

Bucky made an agonised noise at the back of his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut. Steve couldn’t help but think that, whoever, whatever, was up there, had surely moulded them from the same clay. Their cracks and splinters and rough edges matched up, aligned perfectly. They were meant to fit together. Steve was sure of it. Had never been surer of anything in his life. It didn’t matter that they were out of time, displaced, decades away from the era they had called home. None of that mattered, because home was wherever the other happened to be.

"I love you, Buck."

There it was. Out in the world where it couldn’t be snatched back.

"I love you too, Stevie."

The dog tags fell against Steve’s chest with a muffled clatter. 

And their mouths met in the softest, sweetest kiss of Steve’s long life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And _breathe_.   
> The happy reunion is here. I love this chapter for all the reasons and I hope that you did too. There's not much more I can say than that. I love them both. They had to have this.
> 
> See you next week folks! I'll be lurking in the comments for this one. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)


	13. Liminal Spacce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It felt like some divine vision, a blessing, a miracle. Wonder and awe surged through Steve, singing his nerves and burning through his heart. It choked him till he overflowed and, as he gazed at Bucky, a deep, truly realised peace settled in the hollows of his chest._
> 
> || After all this time, Steve finally has Bucky back by his side. But who they were together before holds no meaning on who they are now. It’s uncharted territory from here on out.

Morning dawned with glorious fire in the sky. Warm, summer light poured through the attic window and gathered in golden pools across the tiled floor. Steve hadn’t slept a wink. There had been no nightmares scaring sleep from his door. No, he had spent the entire night in communion with Bucky.

It felt like some divine vision, a blessing, a miracle. Wonder and awe surged through him, singing his nerves and burning through his heart. It choked him till he overflowed and, as he gazed at Bucky, a deep, truly realised peace settled in the hollows of his chest. 

They talked for hours and watched the shadows shift across the walls. They started at the beginning; everything was on the table, out in the open. 

"When did you know?" Bucky asked, lying at his side with his arm slung back behind his head for support. 

"Consciously or unconsciously?" Steve replied, still hugging his leg, resting his cheek on his knee and gazing at the man by his side.

"Both."

"Unconsciously? I was probably about 16, when I was laid up in bed after slicing myself open on that fence. Consciously? After losing you in D.C.," Steve admitted. The old phantom scar down his belly twinged.

Bucky let out a low, breathy "Fuck" and stared, sightlessly at the ceiling.

"You?" Steve steeled himself for the answer, not sure if he truly wanted to know.

"At 17, when you were laid up in bed after slicing yourself open on that fence," he said softly. "You almost died and I was so fucking scared I’d lose you. I guess I realised then that a life without you wouldn’t be worth much." He let out a humourless laugh. "I must have bargained my soul a thousand times over that week in exchange for your life."

"God must have heard your prayers."

"Did he?"

They spoke of the war, of their squadron, of the months that followed Azzano, and the growing sense of unease Bucky felt as he realised the full extent of what had happened under the care of Arnim Zola. The memories from before his fall from the train were the clearest. Everything that came after was more confused, more fragmented. He couldn’t place the timeline as well but the memories themselves were just as vivid. 

"It's an ever evolving thing," he said. "I remember more almost every day, even now. But the faces . . . I remember the faces."

These faces, he said, ran in a never ending loop behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. Bucky told him of missions, of training camps in the frigid Russian tundra, and the handlers that doled out punishments as and when they saw fit. As the hours passed, they moved from topic to topic but, in truth, they only scratched the surface. 

There was so much more to be said but it would have to wait for another night. 

At around 8 AM, four quick raps sounded through the door. Natasha. Steve hopped up from the bed as if stung, and Bucky sprung upright, scrambling to his feet. They shared a panicked look. In all their hours of talking they hadn't come around to how they would handle Natasha and Clint.

"Steve?" called Natasha. "We brought breakfast."

Taking a breath, Steve walked to the door and prayed that their hands were full enough that they wouldn’t be able to grab for their guns.

"I think you guys might be a bit short," he said, voice light and bright, and let the door swing open, hoping that the easy going grin would distract them. He knew it wouldn’t.

The two spies stood before him. Natasha’s eyes flickered over his shoulder and shock flashed through her. She pushed into the room, Clint at her shoulder. Her hands were full with their breakfast, so it was Clint that now had a gun levelled with Bucky’s face.

The door swung shut with a snick, and silence reigned. 

"So," said Steve, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "This is Bucky."

"I can see that," snipped Natasha. Her eyes hadn't left him, and her lips were pressed into a tight line.

From behind him, there was a quiet, “Hello,  _ paučók. _ ” 

Natasha stiffened, clutching at the cardboard coffee tray until her knuckles were white.

"Steve? Care to explain?" Clint’s voice had pitched up. His nostrils flared and he, too, didn’t dare take his eyes off Bucky. 

Bucky, to his credit, had his hands up where everyone could see them, but he appeared remarkably relaxed for someone staring down the barrel of a gun. 

"Guys, if he was here to kill us we'd be dead already. Put the gun away."

Clint shot him a murderous look. “ _ Fuck you _ ,” he signed, and lowered the gun as asked, but didn't put it away. It felt like he was daring Steve to say something, to admonish him, but he just rolled his eyes and signed back, “ _ Cool it _ .”

Natasha dumped their breakfast on the bed and fluffed her blonde hair before turning back to face them. She folded her arms, set her jaw, and gave Steve a very pointed look.

"Come on then, Rogers. What’s going on?" Her voice was flat and even. Dangerous.

"Don’t be mad at him. I’m the one who showed up unannounced," interjected Bucky, taking a step towards the two spies. Clint started and raised the gun again. "Please, I’m not going to hurt you. Here."

At this, he kicked his black backpack towards them. Natasha snatched it from the floor. Inside were folders, files, journals, and a red, hardback notebook. Bucky had told Steve about how, like them, he had collected his evidence from each base he hit in an attempt to reconcile his memories. 

"What’s this?" Natasha snapped, tugging the red notebook from the bag and letting it fall to the floor what a thump. It had a black, five pointed star on the cover.

"My ‘user’s manual’," he said with a wry smile. "If you truly think I’m a risk to any of you, you can activate my programming and I’m yours to command. I won’t hold it against you."

Steve shifted, unsure if he should do anything to stop this. Natasha flicked through the book, one eyebrow cocked, lips pursed. He didn’t think she’d do it but Steve knew her well enough that, if pushed, she wouldn’t hesitate. It was a gamble Bucky was willing to take.

Satisfied with what she had read, Natasha motioned for Clint to stand down, and this time, he put the gun away, tucking it back into the waistband of his jeans. He still looked furious.

“ _ This is bullshit _ ,” he signed to noone in particular, shaking his head and clenching his jaw.

Steve let out a breath and glanced at Bucky, who gave him a tiny shrug.

"I would say it’s nice to finally meet you but that seems a bit redundant given all that’s happened," Natasha said, folding her arms. She kept a tight hold of the notebook, unwilling to let it go quite yet. 

Bucky’s lips quirked at the corners, and his eyes started to crinkle into a smile.

"Better to get acquainted on neutral territory."

"I wouldn’t call Rogers’ bedroom neutral territory."

"Tasha!" This was Clint. The reproach was a scandalised whisper but a grin was creeping onto his lips - irritation gone.

"It’s neutral for now," Bucky bit back. The glint was back in his eye as he realised Natasha would make a worthy sparring partner.

A deep flush crept up Steve’s cheeks and he ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"If you two are quite done," he grumbled.

They were not. 

As they shared breakfast amongst the four of them, Bucky and Natasha traded barbs, usually at Steve’s expense. It set Clint off sniggering and he egged Natasha on with undisguised delight. 

How had he never noticed just how similar they were? This was his fault. He would be stuck with the two of them now. Forever. 

"We kept anything that was directly to do with you back - anything new, at least," said Clint once the repast was finished. "Figured you’d come out of the woodwork eventually, so you could get the final say on what the public see."

"Let them have it all."

"You sure? You’ve done a lot of fucked up shit, man. Do you really want that out there?" Clint sounded incredulous and his face had scrunched up at the thought of releasing that particular Pandora’s box. 

"Your whole thing has been uncensored updates. Why stop now?" said Bucky with a shrug that, on the surface, appeared perfectly nonchalant, but the pinch to his brow betrayed him.

Steve wanted to interject, to promise they wouldn’t release the files, but he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t his decision, and Bucky seemed set on this course. So, that’s what they did. They gathered everything together and fired it out for the world to see. And all hell broke loose. It whipped all corners of the internet into a frenzy. Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, all exploded, and they raked in even more newspaper inches. 

That first night, all four of them sat outside a quaint restaurant on the river Danube and watched the reactions flood in. A half drunk carafe of wine sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by tiny plates of tapas and olives. The sweet fragrance of the trees wafted through the air, mixing with the rich smell of the restaurant’s food. At the next table over, a group of friends were huddled around their phones, debating the latest news in hushed tones, and although he couldn’t understand them, Steve couldn’t help but smile. They had forgone the masks tonight and sat, basking in the summer sun, in caps and sunglasses, their true faces upturned to its warmth.

Only Bucky was caught in the anxious scroll, his finger jabbing at his phone screen to refresh over and over again. His mouth puckered as he read, the blue light flickering over the lenses of his sunglasses. Eventually, Steve pried the phone away with gentle but insistent fingers. Each of them had been caught in that trap before, and it never ended well, so to save him the heartache, he placed it face down on the table and handed him a drink instead. 

He took it with a grateful smile and when their fingers brushed, suddenly Steve found he was very interested in the tablecloth. 

In the days that followed, the online furore calmed. Public perception was generally favourable but there was a strong, vocal minority that demanded the most violent forms of justice. Not just for Bucky, but for all of them. Steve tried to ignore them as much as possible, but somehow he kept on finding his way to their angry, explicative filled posts.

He knew there would need to be some kind of justice. It was inevitable but he was firmly in denial. 

They would burn that bridge when they came to it.

Steve perched on the low stone wall next to the Danube’s edge and watched Natasha drop a small posey of dried flowers into one of the cast iron shoes that lined the river’s edge. She paused for a second, head bowed, then joined Steve. Once she settled, she looped her arm in his and interlaced their fingers, the touch casual and familiar. 

"Clint and I are going to go back to the US," she said, gazing out across the river, eyes scanning the Fisherman’s Bastion up on the opposite hill. 

"Oh?" He looked down at her and she met his gaze, unflinching. 

"It’s time someone sorted out the mess we made." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth and fondness glittered in her clear, green eyes. "Don’t feel like you have to come. Actually, it’s probably best you stayed away. Diplomacy isn’t your strongest suit, old man."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head, a wry smile curling across his lips. 

"I can’t kiss ass and make nice like you can."

"May that never change," she said softly and laid her head on his shoulder. 

Twilight was pulling into the city, but it still buzzed with activity. Tourists milled around the wide boulevard. A couple of kids chased each other a little way away, watched like a hawk by their harried mother. It would be easy for Steve to call a city like Budapest his home, he realised. 

They existed in this moment for a while and Steve was filled with an intense surge of love for his friend. She had been by his side for more than two years, never wavering, never failing. How many ledges had she talked him down from? How many breakdowns had she seen? How many crises had been averted thanks to her? More than he could count. Could he measure up to that? No, he reasoned. He probably couldn’t

"Nat?" She hummed but didn’t look up. "Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. I’d have gone in fists firing that first day with no evidence and it would have been fucked from the start."

"That’s an understatement," she said mildly, but Steve could hear the smile in her voice. 

"Doesn’t make it any less true. I owe you. I’ve been a shitty friend."

Natasha sat up straight and fixed him with an inquisitive stare. 

"You owe me a lifetime of favours, Rogers, and while your record as a friend might be patchy, I  _ chose  _ this. At every turn.  _ I chose this _ ," she stated. She appraised him with soft eyes and a clear, open expression. "I’ve had few opportunities in my life to do the right thing, but with you, doing the right thing was easy. For the past two years, I’ve been  _ sure  _ that I was on the right side of history. That’s not something I’ve ever had before.”

Steve softened. 

"I love a cause."

"Our star spangled man with a plan," Natasha teased and she hummed a few bars of that infernal song.

Steve groaned and cast his eyes to the lilac sky. 

"I’m not going to be able to get that out of head for the next 70 years, you realise this?"

"Call it payback." She sniggered behind her hand and settled her head back down onto his shoulder.

"Are you sure you want me to stay away?" he asked when the question wouldn’t stop niggling at him. "It feels selfish to let you do all this alone."

"Have a holiday," she said, squeezing his fingers. "Take in Europe for a while as some anonymous tourist. Travel like you said you would before. Get to know Bucky away from other people. Besides, who said anything about starting straight away? I have a lake house that’s been gathering dust."

A holiday. With Bucky. In Europe. It wasn’t a terrible idea. It was actually quite excellent. During the war, they had made a list of all the places they wanted to visit once the fighting was done. Except, the chance had been taken from them. Compiled while trudging through thick forests and cooped up in claustrophobic fox holes, they had dreamed of sun drenched beaches, olive groves, and ancient ruins set into rugged mountainsides. Now, perhaps, they could finally experience it for real. 

When Steve broached the subject they were in his attic room changing for dinner. Bucky was stripped to the waist and rummaging for a shirt. 

"Do you remember what we said we’d do after the war?" he asked, fiddling with his shirt cuffs. The tiny buttons kept slipping from his fingers.

"We said we’d do a lot of things," Bucky replied, distracted.

"Yeah, but the big thing.  _ The _ thing," he stressed, a frown tugging across his brow. Maybe this was a stupid idea, but he couldn’t let it go.

The sound of Bucky’s feet padding across the floor towards him raised his eyes from his cuffs. Bucky took his wrist with his left hand and fastened the button for him. The cool metal of his fingers sent a zing of electricity through Steve.

"Are you talking about the ‘Grand Tour’?" He held Steve’s wrist in a light grasp, and he could feel the subtle shift of the plates against his skin.

"Maybe," he mumbled. 

Dammit. Why was it so hard to tell him what he wanted? Ever since that first night they had danced around one another. So many things hung unsaid in the air around them and Steve didn’t know how to sort through it all. There was no doubt about how he felt but navigating those feelings in the real world, outside of the heated bubble of reunion, felt impossible.

"You big, dumb softie," chided Bucky, a smirk spreading across his lips. "Of course I remember that. We were going to climb Vesuvius and look straight into Hell, you said."

He still hadn’t let go of Steve’s wrist and he wondered if that metal hand of his could feel the flush creeping over his skin and the uptick in his heartbeat. Bucky cocked his head and examined him with an intensity that had Steve trying to duck away, but he held him in place, fingers tightening.

Clearing his throat, Steve asked, "Is it too much to ask that we do it now?" 

Who would they be when they were alone together? Steve wondered. He didn’t count these nights spent crammed onto his too small double bed. They were a placeholder for what was to come. Out in the real world. When they woke from fevered nightmares, sheets tangled around their legs, they curled around one another like a ying and yang and whispered shaky comforts into the night. It was new. It was unknown. Would it still hold its charm further down the line?

"What about Natasha and Clint?" Bucky countered, storm clouds gathering at the edges of his narrowed eyes.

"They’re going home via the Berkshires to start working through our mess."

"So it would just be us?"

"Yes."

Bucky considered this, his lips twisting as he chewed the inside of his cheek. 

"For how long?"

"As long as we wanted," Steve breathed, now very aware of the space between them. It was little more than a hand’s breadth and he could see where the sun had brought out the smattering of freckles that dusted Bucky’s nose and the top of his bare shoulder.

Bucky hummed. His eyes were fixed on their only point of contact. Steve’s skin was hot and he had to fight the urge to close the gap. It reared up like a long forgotten hunger. It snatched the air from his lungs and left him dizzy, like the asthma attacks of old. 

"Buck?" His voice was a purr, husky and ephemeral.

"Count me in." Bucky’s eyes were blown out and his mouth was impossibly red. Steve could feel himself drawing closer with each breath.

But then he was gone. Bucky released him and he was turning away, reaching for his shirt. His wrist burned and faint pink marks were pressed into his skin. Steve shuddered as a thrill pulsed through him. Mouth dry, he watched Bucky move from underneath his long lashes. With undisguised longing, he devoured the muscles of his back.

As if caught in the moments before a lightning storm, the air between them was charged, crackling with energy.

Steve gave himself a shake, and by the time Bucky turned back around to face him again, he had composed his face into a mild, inoffensive mask that didn’t show the tremors below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love on last week's chapter!! I'm couldn't be happier to finally share it with you and seeing all your reactions warmed my heart to the nth degree. I was overflowing with it all. Thank you thank you!!
> 
> Next week the boys have a holiday because at this point I got really self-indulgent. 😏😏😏
> 
> Until then, find me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)!


	14. The Maidens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Think we could swim all the way to Malta from here?” Bucky asked, eyes narrowed against the light and gazing into the distance._
> 
> _And though he didn’t look at Steve, Steve looked at him, resolutely studying his profile and not the way the line of him disappeared below the water’s surface. Metal brushed against the back of his hand once more and he shifted, pulling his hand back to scratch through his beard._
> 
> _“Hell, we could probably swim to Tripoli without it being too much effort,” he replied with a huff and cast his eyes back towards the horizon._
> 
> _They stood there together a while longer with only the quiet rush of the waves between them. Steve was painfully aware of every minute movement Bucky made. Every breath seemed to stir the air._
> 
> || Bucky and Steve set out on their Grand Tour and Steve struggles with his emotions. Outside the heat of reunion, how are they supposed to reconnect?

Steve rose slowly from the depths of sleep. His body woke bit by bit, but he didn’t open his eyes straight away, content to lie there and listen to the waves. The gentle hush and shush of the water was soothing. He could tell by the light against his eyelids that the sun was up but the air was still cool. It couldn’t be more than 5:30 AM - his usual time. But he didn’t feel tired. He felt rested. There was no ache behind his eyes, no fog nor veil over his mind.

When he cracked an eyelid, he saw that their fire was still smoking, the barest heat smouldering in the last of the big logs they’d fed it before settling down for the night. It was as he wriggled, began to stretch and crack bones that had spent too long in one position, that he felt him, Bucky, curled up around his spine, one arm snaked around his waist: slotted up against him like they were spoons.

Closing his eyes again, Steve lay there for a moment, savouring the touch given so easily in the depths of sleep. But as quick as the feeling came, he was just as quick to push it away. It rushed at him like a wave, rearing up behind him, swelling in his chest till it felt like he had no breath to give. So, he extracted himself, careful not to wake him. Bucky snuffled, flexed his now empty arm, but slumbered on. Steve backed up until it felt like he could breathe again and he turned to face the sea. 

They had been in Sicily for two weeks now, today their last day before catching the ferry to the mainland and continuing their journey. In so many ways, none of this had felt real. And yet, he also felt so fucking alive that sometimes he thought he was about to vibrate right out of his skin. Colours had never been so vibrant. Palermo, the terracotta maze of narrow streets and intricate Arabic architecture,  _ glowed _ . The sea glittered so bright and blue that sometimes when the sun hit it just right, it looked like diamonds. 

And then there was Bucky. Bucky who took in everything they saw with wide-eyed wonder and a disbelieving smile. Bucky who, after spending long days under the sun, had seen his olive complexion darken to a rich tan and his hair regain some of its lustre. Bucky who looked at Steve like he still expected him to disappear at a moment’s notice. But then, Steve thought he probably did the same. 

During the day, they rarely spoke about anything that wasn’t right there in front of them. It was easier at night. Under the cover of darkness, they could speak more freely. The night before they had finally landed on the Battle of New York and everything that came with it.

“Aliens, huh?”

“Robot lookin’ aliens,” Steve said, staring at the blanket of stars above them and wondering how many beings were out there doing the same thing. “Fell straight outta the sky. Shoulda seen it.” He paused and huffed, a slight smile on his lips. “This is gonna sound stupid but right in the middle of it all, I thought of you. Thought how you woulda wanted to see real live, honest to god aliens.”

“S’not so stupid.”

Steve had glanced at him then. The fire danced across his skin and he had longed to reach out and feel how it had warmed him. He had wanted to press his mouth to Bucky's throat, his nose to the hollow under the hinge of his jaw just to smell how the heat of him mixed with the smell of suncream, salt, and sun. He hadn’t but god, did he want to. These wants unfurled in his chest and seeped right through him till he could feel it in his fingertips. 

"Was an alien that told me you were alive." 

"How'd it know?" 

"I have no idea." In the silence that followed, Steve had granted himself leave to let his hand creep out, to brush the tips of his fingers against the edge of Bucky's arm - just to check he was still real.

As he looked out across the water, Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair and beard. It wasn’t a weary sigh, just a loud exhalation, something deep and settled. It could almost be called content. 

He ran through everything they needed to do that morning. First and foremost, before they caught their ferry, they would need to find a post box. There was a slightly dogeared postcard in his duffel waiting to be sent Stateside. It was an ugly thing covered in kittens and glitter and proclaiming in colourful bubble lettering, ‘Wish you were here!” but it had cost him all of 30 cents and fit his purpose just fine.

“You write me, Rogers,” Natasha had growled the morning they had departed Budapest, prodding him in the chest and looking more than a little watery. “I don’t care what it is, just something to know you’re alive.”

They’d stood down on the empty street, clustered close with the grey dawn pulled in around them and the shrill rev of mopeds echoing in the distance. They must have said goodbye at least five times before the final one stuck. Right before they left, Natasha had gripped Bucky’s arm and looked at him with a fire in her eyes so fierce it would have made a mortal man feel faint. Something passed between them and they nodded at one another: in agreement to some unspoken understanding.

Steve missed her. Clint too. They had his shield, had taken it for safekeeping, but he didn’t think he missed that so much.

A buttery yellow sun hung low over and heavy over the horizon. Its heat wasn’t up to full power but the first warm rays were licking at his cheeks and his poor, peeling nose that had been burned more than once already. He stretched again and his back popped. 

The water looked inviting. It glimmered pale gold in the early morning sunlight, frothy waves rolling gently up the beach. He could do with a swim. Sleep still clung to his skin and it had been more than a day since he'd last showered. The urge caught him unawares and before he could stop himself, he was at the water’s edge. Rolling his shoulders, Steve shucked his shorts and shirt and let them drop to his feet in the sand before wading into the sea. 

His feet sank into the soft, wet sand with every step. The water’s chill raised the gooseflesh on his arms and he gasped as it lapped up over his hips and waist. But then he smiled, stood still, and revelled in the purity of the moment, of the  _ feeling  _ it sparked within him. His eyes drifted shut. Gentle waves crested against his torso but he was immovable, simply content to let his hands skim across the surface. 

“Mind if I join you?” Bucky. His voice was gentle, husky with sleep. He hadn’t heard him approach.

Steve hummed his assent but didn’t open his eyes. The water shifted and he became aware of Bucky standing next to him. The air around them thickened, pushed up against his right side. The faintest brush of metal across the back of Steve’s hand startled him into opening his eyes.

Looking back towards the shore, he saw their clothes in a neat pile by their camp. 

“Think we could swim all the way to Malta from here?” Bucky asked, eyes narrowed against the light and gazing into the distance.

And though he didn’t look at Steve, Steve looked at him, resolutely studying his profile and not the way the line of him disappeared below the water’s surface. Metal brushed against the back of his hand once more and he shifted, pulling his hand back to scratch through his beard.

“Hell, we could probably swim to Tripoli without it being too much effort,” he replied with a huff and cast his eyes back towards the horizon.

They stood there together a while longer with only the quiet rush of the waves between them. Steve was painfully aware of every minute movement Bucky made. Every breath seemed to stir the air. 

“Come on, let’s swim,” he said eventually and started to wade further and further into the sea until his feet no longer touched the ground. 

But Bucky hadn’t moved. When Steve turned, treading water, he saw Bucky watching him with an inscrutable look. Tasting salt and the metallic weight of his own feelings, he took him in. He took in the way his hair caught like gold in the sun, the delicate pinkness to his lips, and the way those lips curled up into a tiny smirk as he looked Steve’s way. It sent a sharp twist straight through his gut and his heart ticked up and up and up till it was echoing in his ears. 

With a gulp, Steve dived down, kicked away, and swam until his lungs burned enough that he was forced to come up for air. Bucky  _ still  _ hadn’t moved and even though there must have been a hundred metres or more between them, Steve was sure that he was smiling - laughing, even. But then, Bucky dived forward and started swimming towards him, a lazy front crawl that he flipped onto its back every so often like some kind of slow, spinning torpedo.

They swam until their muscles ached and quivered. They went around in circles, spiralling further and further from shore until they were out past the mouth of the bay, well and truly out at sea. The current tugged and snapped at their ankles but it couldn’t get a grip strong enough to drag them down. Steve’s heart soared. There was laughter. There was joy. There was a desire that he couldn’t quite acknowledge. 

Eventually, they swam back towards the shore where they lay out on the sand and let the sun dry them. There was a true warmth there now and though it was still early, Steve felt the promise of a searing heat lying deep within those rays. 

After Sicily, they travelled through the boot of Italy and up the Amalfi coast. Here, brightly coloured houses were set into rugged cliff sides and the water shimmered turquoise under a blazing sun. It was all so goddamn beautiful that it set off an itch beneath Steve's skin which, at first, he didn’t recognise. But when he stumbled across a tiny art supplies shop tucked away in some winding side-street, he ended up buying two new artist’s pads and a very expensive set of oil pastels almost without thinking. The smell of the shop with its chalks and charcoals, paints and papers transported him back 70 years to another time, a time where all of this was second nature to him.

He was rusty, but it soon came back, a long forgotten muscle memory just waiting to be rediscovered. It was relaxing. It calmed the frantic buzz of his mind and he wished he had plucked up the courage to do this years ago. On sunny, too hot afternoons, they sat in the shade of umbrellas in beautiful plazas and Steve experimented with colour while Bucky sat by his side. 

Even with all the beauty surrounding them, Steve’s eye was drawn again and again to Bucky, and soon, the pages of his pad began to fill with study after study of his friend. He was a much better model these days. The restless energy of youth was gone. He didn’t fidget or pace anymore. He would sit as if carved from stone - watching the people around them, watching Steve, watching the sun shift across the sky. 

"Don’t you ever think of picking it back up again? Art, I mean," Steve asked him one afternoon as they strolled through one of Sorrento’s many palazzos, examining the frescos.

Bucky didn’t answer straight away, instead allowing his eyes to roam the airy interior.

"I haven’t touched a pencil like that since-" He whistled. "Oh, about 1941. I don’t think that’s for me anymore."

His tone was resigned but there was no sadness or bitterness colouring it. It was quite matter of fact. 

"Why?" asked Steve, drawing closer to him. He wanted to reach out and hold him but something stopped him. 

"I’m not made for creation," Bucky replied, scuffing the toe of his shoe along the grouting between the flagstones. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets and he was scowling at the floor, lips pursed. 

How did he want him to respond, Steve wondered as a sharp zing of panic shot through him. But before he could answer Bucky said with a shrug, "That’s just my cross to bear." Then, as he gestured towards the old men playing cards across the way, "Come on, let’s go and see if we can crash their game."

He took off towards them, leaving Steve feeling as if he was treading water. These moments left him on the back foot: the moments where Bucky would get a dark, shut off look behind his eyes like he was seeing something completely different than what was in front of him. But then, there were the moments of levity, where he would throw his head back and laugh like he had nary a care in the world; the moments where his eyes were as light and clear as the glittering ocean, the moments where he would press close with a wicked look and a smart remark that left Steve hot around the ears.

Despite the declarations made, and the kiss they had shared that first night in Budapest, it hadn’t gone any further. Steve didn’t know how to act on the feelings that had now become fully fledged demons, demanding to be acknowledged. They wore the faces of memories long since repressed, of forgotten looks and touches that now had new meaning. Every time he tried to speak, he choked.

Their close quarters didn’t help either. They shared cramped beds. They shared food. They even shared clothes. Bucky was everywhere. Sometimes Steve would catch him looking, heavy-lidded, in his direction, and every time he rushed to change the subject, to draw his attention to anything other than him. Bucky would frown, pursing his lips, but he’d play along. 

Pompeii and Vesuvius awaited. 

Despite the early hour the sun was warm and it beat down on them from on high. Steve could feel it across his shoulders, and the back of his neck prickled already. They had decided that morning, while huddled around a crumpled map, that they would hike the volcano first before the true zenith of the day. Bucky’s black backpack was filled with bottles of water, snacks, and the largest, strongest bottle of suncream he could find in the local pharmacy.

It felt good to take on the hike. Steve relished the way the muscles in his legs started to burn and the way he gasped to bring unwilling air into his lungs. Of course, they could have taken the shuttle bus up. It was the easy choice, but it hadn’t even come up in their discussion of the day. This was a pilgrimage 70 years in the making, and they were going to climb it themselves. 

They took their time, pausing frequently to take in the view and catch their breath, but even so they made it up in well under half an hour. The crater stretched out in front of them, grey shingle and rough brush lining its interior. When they had planned this before, Steve had imagined looking down straight into the fiery pits. Images of churning lava and great sulphurous clouds had permeated his imagination, and he couldn’t help but be disappointed that it was just a lot of grey and red rock.

When Bucky saw him glowering, he threw an arm around his shoulders and gave him a playful punch in the arm.

"Come on, don’t look like that!" he said with a barking laugh, teeth flashing. "We’re here! We’re alive to see this, Stevie."

Bucky waved his other arm out in front of them. His eyes were wide and his cheeks were flushed. It was infectious, and though Steve shook off his arm, he couldn’t help but join in with his jubilation. Annoyance flickered across Bucky’s face, but then he grinned once more and sprinted down into the depths of the crater with a wild cheer. Steve followed with a booming laugh. 

The crater was a deep cauldron, and down in its depths Steve could feel the heat emanating from down below. Here, the smell of sulphur permeated the air, and streams of hot air shot out from between cracks in the rock. Steve held his hands to these slim jet streams, and some of his long-held excitement came flooding back. Somewhere below the surface was the churning pit of lava. A primal thrill of fear ran through him at the thought of all that power lying beneath his feet.

He grinned at Bucky and, like a pair of children, they began to giggle.

There were still very few people around, and it gave Steve an idea. 

"Race you to the bottom?"

"What if people see?" Bucky laughed, eyes lighting up at the prospect of the challenge. 

Steve shrugged. "There’s no one about. It’s still too early."

Bucky shifted from foot to foot, eager to take up his offer. 

"Loser buys breakfast!" he cried and took off, scrambling up the loose shingle.

With a yelp, Steve sprinted after him. Rocks flying and feet sliding, he caught up with Bucky in a few long strides. They made it over the lip together and flew down the looping path to the bottom of the mountain. Whoops and hollers tripped from their tongues as they whipped past lone hikers and left them in their dust. 

They were neck and neck. Bucky shoved at Steve, trying to trip him but he leapt out of his way and put on an extra burst of speed. Steve pulled ahead and barrelled past the start of the path. He raised a fist to the air in victory, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun.

"Fuck you’re fast. God damn it," wheezed Bucky as he jogged to a halt. He pulled off his cap, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "You’d think I’d be used to it by now."

"Sucks to be you, I guess," chuckled Steve, taking several long, deep breaths, hands on hips. "Better get used to losing."

"Not a chance. I demand a rematch," Bucky huffed, replacing his cap. "I’ll get you next time."

"Whatever you say." The glower he shot his way was about as effective as a puppy. "Put that look away. You’re just annoyed that you’re the one buying breakfast. You owe me coffee, Barnes."

Bucky rolled his eyes and muttered something about a handicap and advanced age.

As expected, the temperature skyrocketed. There was very little shade around the ruins, and the pale rocks bounced the heat and bright sunlight back into their eyes as they wound their way through exhibits. It prickled across Steve skin and made the inside of his elbows itch. 

While they walked through the narrow streets, Bucky kept brushing up against him. Their fingers would tangle for seconds at a time before Steve would shift away and pretend to be absorbed by the information boards, even though he could feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze across his shoulders. 

They made their way in reverent silence, walking alongside the ghosts of those long since past. There was one cast that Steve had wanted to see since he was a child and had first read of Pompeii in crushed history books with grainy pictures: the Maidens, two young women who died in each others’ arms rather than be separated. Standing in front of them, Steve was struck by their position; it was strikingly similar to the way he and Bucky often curled up to sleep at night. Their legs were tangled, and one had lain their head on the other’s chest, arms flung around their companion’s middle. He pointed it out to Bucky who just grunted in response. 

Steve frowned. Bucky’s face had closed off, and there was a darkness gathering at the edges of his grey eyes. He tried to draw him out and into conversation for the rest of the day, but all he received in response were monotone answers and a series of grunts. It was enough to raise his hackles, and by the time they collapsed into their hotel room in Naples, he had had enough. 

"What’s wrong with you today? You’ve barely spoken to me since this morning?" he snapped, shoving their duffel bags onto the floor and kicking them under the bed.

Bucky stood by the window, arms folded tightly across his chest as he observed the hustle and bustle of the city. In the distance, the bay glittered like obsidian. Steve tried to turn him to face him but he shrugged him off. 

"What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you, Steve?" The accusation stung. He turned now to face him and jabbed a finger at his chest. "It’s been weeks since we left Budapest and you’ve barely  _ touched  _ me. Oh no, sorry, you  _ have _ but it’s only at night when you don’t have to look at me.”

His grey eyes mocked him and his mouth was twisted up in a sneer. 

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it. It’s the only time you want to talk, too. As in, properly talk. Are you seriously telling me, you hadn’t noticed? Everything comes out in the dark with you Stevie.”

Steve floundered. The feelings he’d been wrestling with these past few weeks reared their ugly heads and snarled their victory. He wanted to. God knew he wanted to. It was all he thought about when Bucky curled around him at night, breath hot on the back of his neck.

"Spit it out."

"I don’t - I didn’t know if-"

"If what?" Bucky demanded and took a few steps towards him.

"I don’t know, okay!" he cried. Guilt, desire, desperation: they all twisted up inside him, vying for his attention.

"How can you not know? I appear in front of you for the first time in years, you bare your fucking soul to me, kiss me, and then, what? You retreat into that thick skull of yours," he snapped. "Stop shutting me out."

"I didn’t know what you wanted," he said in a rush, exasperated. It was only half true. In fact, it was more lie than truth. Bucky had made it plain in more ways than just words, and the dark voiced part of his mind taunted him, goaded him, about it. Given half the chance, he didn’t know if he would be able to control himself. Given half the chance, he would devour Bucky body and soul.

"Oh for fuck’s sake, Steve!" cried Bucky throwing his hands up in the air and stomping back towards the open window. "I’m not some delicate flower here. I am more than capable of strapping on my big boy pants and having an adult conversation about whatever this-" He gestured emphatically between them, eyes burning. "-is. Give me some credit, you self-righteous prick."

Steve’s ears burned and he ground his teeth. He stood to attention, back ramrod straight as he took the admonishment. It was well deserved. Ever since they left Budapest he’d been handling Bucky with kid gloves instead of talking to him like an adult. 

Keeping his eyes fixed on the watercolour painting that hung next to the window, he said, "You’re right. I’m sorry."

The echo of his hammering heart beat against his eardrums.

"Damn straight, I am," Bucky huffed. He looked over his shoulder at him and rolled his eyes. "At ease, Rogers. I’m not Phillips giving you a dressing down for being some reckless punk, okay? I want you to  _ talk _ to me for Chrissake."

But Steve couldn’t relax. His hands were balled into fists behind his back and his jaw was wired shut. Adrenaline pulsed through him. Bucky stalked towards him but he couldn’t bring himself to look him full in the face. Except, Buky was having none of it. He gripped his chin with his metal hand and forced him to look him dead in the eyes. 

Fire pooled in his belly. It seeped out, burning through his veins till he was hot all over.

"What. Do. You. Want?"

The question was pointed, staccato. He appeared poised, like he was gearing up for a fight. Steve felt like he was balanced on a precipice, about to fall into a delicious darkness.

"You." His voice was raspy. Raw. Exposed. Desperation licked at his insides.

"Me?" A dark look crossed Bucky’s face. He cocked an eyebrow and raised his chin, defiant.

"Yes. All of you."

"Then take me, sweetheart."

"Buck . . ."

"Kiss me like you mean it so hel-"

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged, smothering the last of Bucky’s exasperated shout. Their mouths crashed together: hot and open-mouthed. The force at which they came together sent them rocketing back towards the window. Steve grabbed Bucky by the waist and pushed him up against the nearest wall with a thud. The pictures rattled in their frames.

Hands tugged at clothes and pulled at hair. Steve didn’t know if the moans came from his mouth or Bucky’s. Pressed up against him like this, Steve wanted to lose himself over and over again. He pushed his hands underneath Bucky’s shirt, fingers digging into the soft, flushed flesh of his torso. He shuddered under his touch and sagged against the wall. There were no smart remarks tripping from his lips now.

Rough fingers tugged Steve’s head back, breaking their kiss, but Bucky's mouth was hot and hungry on his throat before he could even register the loss. He groaned, knees weakening. In his ear, Bucky snickered. The sound sent shivers through him. With a grunt, Steve pushed Bucky’s shirt up over his head and let it fall to the floor. He slid a hand up the planes of his bare chest to his throat, angling his chin away from him with his thumb, and he pinned his flesh hand above their heads. Bucky’s metal fingers bit into Steve’s shoulder as he left a trail of sloppy kisses where his neck met his shoulder. 

With a heavy moan, Bucky rutted against him. Steve nipped at his ear, and this ignited something that had him pushing Steve back with a sharp shove. He stumbled but caught himself. Panting and open-mouthed, they stared each other down. Bucky had a look that would leave the heavens shaking. He stalked forward, fingers curling. Steve thrummed. 

"You really want this?" he growled, eyes tracing over Steve’s body.

He nodded, mute and slack-jawed, gaze lingering on Bucky’s now very pink mouth. 

Next he knew, that mouth was on his once more and they were falling back onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

Later, when they were spent, they lay back on the bed. High in the sky, the moon peeped out from behind a few hazy clouds, her pale beams hardly enough to light their room. Bucky lay on his front, looking up at Steve from where his head rested on his forearms. His long hair was mussed and stuck up in odd places in a way that Steve found incredibly endearing. 

"Well, that was new," he said mildly, looking past Bucky out the window. 

Below them the city wailed, clamouring with life as sirens sounded in the distance. But here, in this room, it was still and quiet. Beside him, Bucky snorted.

"That’s one word for it. And here was me thinking we were out of firsts."

"I don’t know, I reckon we’ve got a few more left to have."

"Okay, maybe a  _ few  _ but you have to admit, we’ve had the most unique set of firsts."

It was Steve’s turn to laugh. He glanced down at the man at his side with a fond smile. Bucky shifted onto his side, supporting his head with his hand and Steve slid down the pillows to mirror him. 

"I suppose you’re right."

"I’m always right."

"I wouldn’t go that far."

Bucky grinned. In this light, he was all shades of grey. Even with all his details smudged and with shadows stretching across his skin, Steve was struck by just how beautiful he actually was. He reached out and tucked some stray hair back behind his ear, fingertips brushing along the angles of his cheeks. Bucky leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, and he caught his hand to lay a kiss onto the palm. He held his hand against his cheek for a few seconds, a sweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

A great wave of love welled up in Steve at that moment and he pulled Bucky to him, catching his lips once more. They traded slow, curious kisses. Their fire from earlier had broken to a low smoulder. Steve let his hands wander gently up and down Bucky’s side, relishing the shudder his touch elicited. His fingers traced the contours of his muscles, the curve of his collarbones and - he paused, index finger hovering over the snarled scars across Bucky’s left shoulder.

His eyes were shut, enjoying the sensation. When he felt Steve stop, he cracked an eyelid for a second. 

"It’s okay," he murmured and shut his eyes again.

Steve brushed against the thick, shiny scars with a feather-light touch. Bucky stiffened and Steve paused again but he hummed at him and gestured for him to continue. As he continued, he slowly began to relax again till all the tension had slid from his features and a serene look took its place. Steve traced each tangled vine across his chest and, underneath his fingertips, he could feel Bucky’s shuddering heartbeat. 

"Does it still hurt?" he asked, eyes following his fingers’ journey.

"Only in the cold."

The bed creaked as Steve shifted closer and he took Bucky’s metal hand in his. He swept the pad of his thumb across his knuckles and traced the outline of the metal plates. They shifted beneath his touch but Bucky remained still, a pained expression now marring his features. 

"I’m sorry, is this - is this not okay?" whispered Steve about to withdraw but Bucky’s fingers tightened around his.

"No, it’s . . ." he trailed off, eyes still shut as he drew a shaky breath. "It’s, uh, different is all."

His throat bobbed.

"Don’t stop," he rasped. Steve hesitated, doubt pushing up his throat. "Please."

A new sort of energy sparked between them. It wasn’t like the insistent crackle that had chased them through Sicily and all the way up to Naples. No, this thrummed with a low, heavy intent that pulled from Steve’s navel and drew him closer to the man at his side. 

He resumed his careful examination of Bucky’s hand, his arm. The soft whirring of gears and the hitching of their breath was all Steve could hear. All the wailing city sounds had faded from his ears; it had ceased to exist while the two of them lay together. He brought the tip of each metal finger to his mouth and kissed them. He kissed each knuckle too, lips firm and sure. Then, he held that metal hand to his cheek and planted soft kiss after soft kiss into Bucky’s solid palm. Bucky’s eyes were open now, shiny and watching him. 

"You’re not scared?"

"Of you? Never."

Quick as a flash, Bucky pushed Steve onto his back, straddling his hips and pinning his hands by his head. His heartbeat quickened but he didn’t flinch. No, he kept his gaze steady on Bucky’s face, memorising it anew. 

"You sure, Rogers?" It was a challenge. It was a plea. It was another out.

"Are you, Barnes?" Steve shot back, licking his lips and raising his chin.

Bucky’s grip flexed around his wrists and he dropped another crushing kiss onto Steve’s waiting mouth.

"Fuck, I love you, Stevie," he mumbled against his lips.

"I love you too, Buck."

They sank into another heated embrace. And so it went on until the first rays of the day’s new light started to streak across the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve could never get away with being a clam for long. There's no hiding from Bucky. 😏  
> Also some mild seasoning for you, like half a chilli waved in the direction of the plate. lmao 🌶
> 
> From Italy, they're off to Greece and the plot comes back too because we can't escape that pesky plot for long. 
> 
> See you then! 
> 
> I'll be down lurking in the comments as ever. Come say hey.
> 
> Or, come find me [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	15. Odyssey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘NOMAD: COWARD OR CONQUEROR?’_
> 
> _‘HYDRA X-FILES: BLACK WIDOW RETURNS’_
> 
> _‘THE WIDOW IS BACK’_
> 
> _‘BLACK WIDOW TO TESTIFY AT SILVER TONGUE HEARING’_
> 
> _‘WHERE IS CAPTAIN AMERICA AND WHY IS HE HIDING?’_
> 
> || While Bucky and Steve take in everything Greece has to offer, things back home are starting to heat up and Steve can’t help but feel like he should be there too.

‘ **HYDRA X-FILES: BLACK WIDOW RETURNS** ’

‘ **THE WIDOW IS BACK** ’

‘ **BLACK WIDOW TO TESTIFY AT SILVER TONGUE HEARING** ’

‘ **WHERE IS CAPTAIN AMERICA AND WHY IS HE HIDING?** ’

‘ **NOMAD: COWARD OR CONQUEROR?** ’

These were just a few of the headlines splattered across the front pages at the Athenian tobacconists. Natasha’s face stared back at him. It was one of the official press shots taken in the aftermath of New York where she was all smokey eyes and red lips and smirking at the camera. 

His own face, too, featured heavily. He looked like a completely different person - clean shaven with neat blonde hair parted down the side just so. It felt like a lifetime ago. At least the long hair and beard gave him some degree of anonymity. Although, if anything, he was blonder thanks to an afternoon spent messing about with lemon juice and the searing, late August sun on the road to Mycenae.

So far, they had taken a twisted, haphazard journey through Greece. After arriving in Corfu, they travelled down the coast to Letrina where they disembarked to make their way towards Olympia and the Northern Peloponnese. In Mycenae they wandered hand in hand around the ruins of Agamemnon’s court before snaking through Corinth towards Athens. Where they didn’t want to walk, they hitchhiked, giving fake names and finding stories that matched the masks they wore. 

With a resigned sigh, Steve bought a couple of papers and wove his way back to the cafe down the street where Bucky was waiting with coffee and bougatsa. Before he sat down, Steve took a beat to watch him unobserved. The baseball cap he usually wore sat on the table in front of him and his sunglasses perched atop his head, keeping his hair from falling into his eyes as he read their battered guide book. He smiled, heart swelling. He appeared so free and clear from worry. When he approached him, Bucky’s face lit up, eyes creasing into a warm smile. 

"You’ve got your sad eyes on. What’s up?" he asked as Steve stooped to kiss him.

"Natasha," he replied, tossing the papers onto the table.

Bucky frowned at the front pages and in one fluid motion he replaced his sunglasses and cap.

"She’s caused quite the stir," Bucky remarked, scanning the stories, his eyebrows shooting up.

"So it would seem." Steve knocked back his coffee, not tasting it, and began to read.

The tone of the articles was critical but, generally, not unkind. 

It seemed that Natasha had been spotted presenting herself to Nick Fury in D.C.. There was a blurry, long lens shot of her entering a downtown building. Steve knew that this would have been by careful design. She was looking straight at the camera and he wouldn’t be surprised if she herself had given the press the tip off. 

‘ _ It cannot be a coincidence that Ms. Romanoff has chosen this moment to resurface after almost two years on the run. The Silver Tongue Inquiry is due to recommence proceedings in the next few weeks, and many have wondered if any of the main players would be in attendance for questioning with regard to the role they played in the downfall of SHIELD in September 2012. While it is understood that Clint Barton, too, has returned home to America, there is no evidence to suggest that Steve Rogers has done the same. He remains at large, whereabouts unknown.’ _

  * **_Veronica DuValle, The Guardian._**



DuValle went on for several more paragraphs but Steve’s main takeaway was that she was critical of the inquiry and any subsequent trial’s ability to remain unbiased in the face of what would be unprecedented media scrutiny. He couldn’t say he was surprised. It was to be expected really - court of public opinion and all. He continued to read, pulling another paper towards him, eyes skimming across the newsprint.

_‘Representative Lipnicky has made his stance clear since the beginning._ _" I have nothing but respect for Captain Rogers’ past service to this country. However, as far as I’m concerned, they have betrayed us all by deciding they are above the law, and the punishment must fit the crime," he remarked when asked for comment._

_ Sentiments such as these are shared by a number of Representatives across the political spectrum, but there are many who support Captain Rogers and his band of rogues. _

_ One such supporter is Senator Calloway. The New York native has been vocal in her support for the past two years. Since the most recent Nomad update, which detailed the capture and subsequent torture of Sergeant James Barnes at the hands of Hydra, Ms. Calloway has spearheaded the campaign for him to receive a full pardon.  _

_ "Hydra turned Mr. Barnes into a weapon. What he may or may not have done while under their influence cannot be held against him. It should be made clear to everyone that he is the longest serving prisoner of war this country has ever seen. We have failed in our duty and a full pardon would be the first step in righting those wrongs."’ _

  * _**Kelsey Yang, The New York Time** s _



"You have a fan," said Steve, passing Bucky the Times once he finished Kelsey Yang’s article.

"Just the one?" He took it and scanned the page. "Maybe I should send Ms. Calloway a fruit basket for her efforts."

Steve chuckled and finished the last of the bougatsa, savouring the sweetness on his tongue. He let his fork fall with a clatter.

"It’s a good thing, Buck. She’s well liked. That’s a powerful ally to have on your side." Steve folded his arms, crossed one ankle over the other, and looked over at Bucky, who was still reading the article with a crease between his eyebrows.

"Hold me back," he muttered under his breath and Steve could hear him rolling his eyes. 

He decided not to push it any further. Instead, he looked out across the plaza, foot rattling and fingers tapping against his ribs. Natasha had begun her clear up operation. There was no doubt that she could handle it. Steve had trusted her with his life and his sanity more times than he could count but part of him wished he was there with her. Sure, it was a different sort of fight than he was used to - and one that Natasha was infinitely more skilled in than him - but being benched didn’t sit right. 

She had asked him to stay away, however, and away he would stay. At least for now. As it stood, the most pressing matter was getting up the acropolis before the worst of the crowds. 

High on the rocky outcrop that dominated the Athenian skyline stood the Parthenon, the great temple to Athena. For all it may have been ruined, savaged by the sands of time, it remained magnificent. Thick columns of white marble held up what remained of the friezes and pediment sculptures all around the building. Steve longed to be able to take a closer look, but he made do with information boards and depictions of what they had looked like in centuries past. 

Bucky was fascinated in the architecture, marvelling at how they had manipulated the huge slabs of marble into such elaborate structures. As they explored the ruins, Bucky read from their guide book: facts, tidbits of information, it didn’t matter, Steve just enjoyed listening to his voice. It sounded so light, airy even, like he was truly starting to enjoy himself. He took particular delight in showing Steve what the temples and buildings used to look like with their brightly painted exteriors.

"It’s so garish," he said with a wince. "It’s like when you fuck up the colour after nailing the linework."

"I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had that problem," said Steve over his shoulder as he examined the remains of a sculpture, a wicked grin plastered across his face.

Bucky shot him a withering look, told him to, “Piss off,” and swatted him in the arm with the guide book. Steve guffawed.

After Athens, they started island hopping, taking in the Cyclades: Mykonos, Delos, Naxos. Then, Marathon. They walked the length of the beach hand in hand and ran part of the trail back towards Athens but, after about 10 miles, neither could be bothered going any further and turned back. The beach would make for a perfect camping spot.

Steve relished their time together in whatever form it took. Whether it was afternoons spent drawing in sun drenched plazas or long hikes through the mountains where they picked olives straight from the trees - he loved it. Loved Bucky even more. And everything that came with it. 

There were the long days spent losing themselves in one another on secluded lakesides where prying eyes couldn’t find them. On those days they crashed together, over and over again like waves breaking against the rocks until they couldn’t move and Steve’s back was marked up real nice. They were making up for lost time after all.

It wasn’t all sunshine and smiles, however. Even when surrounded by all this beauty, the nightmares were never far from their door. It was rare if either of them got a full night’s sleep. One would awaken, sweat pooling in the hollows of their neck and with the sheets twisted around their legs, and the other would rub their back and whisper sweet comforts into their ear. 

Sometimes Steve would jolt wake to an empty bed and the moon streaming in through the window. Invariably, Bucky could be found on the balcony hugging his knees and tugging at his hair as he wrestled his breathing back under control. There was very little he could say in these moments. He understood, in his own way. They both knew what it was like to feel the sharp burn of ice in their lungs. So, he’d settle down by his side and put an arm around him until he calmed.

As the weeks progressed, more news about Natasha and the Silver Tongue Enquiry kept trickling through. Things back home were amping up. She had yet to make any public appearances, and speculation was rife about what she would reveal about their operations. 

The very thought filled Steve with prickly dread; it started in his belly, crawling up his throat, spreading across his shoulders and snaking down his back. It became a constant, lecherous companion,and he spent a lot of time distracted, being drawn into an anxious scroll again and again. Late at night he’d sit phone inches from his face, blue light searing his eyes reading opinion piece after opinion piece until inevitably, Bucky pried the phone from his hands and told him to come back to bed. He wanted nothing more than to contact Natasha properly, in a way that wasn’t just postcards. He missed her calm presence, the way she looked at him when she thought he was being ridiculous, the sly, underhand remarks. But he knew that any digital contact would be risky for both of them. By staying away, he gave her plausible deniability. 

The morning they were due to leave Delphi for Ithaca, Steve’s phone pinged. An update. His stomach dropped when he saw the headline.

‘ **WIDOW GIVES FIRST TESTIMONY IN SILVER TONGUE HEARING** ’

There was an article he didn’t read, more interested in the video embedded at the top of the page. Sitting hunched on the edge of the bed, Steve pushed the volume up and set eyes on his friend properly for the first time in months. Natasha looked good. She was tanned, clearly having spent many afternoons lazing out on the water by the lake house. The blonde was gone from her hair and it now hung like two shiny, red curtains around her face. Her eyes were smoked out, and a sheen of gloss coated her lips. She was dressed in a well cut blue suit, and she wore a tiny, silver arrow necklace around her neck. 

The grey suited men of the committee appraised her with cold eyes and looks that bordered on disgust. But Natasha was poised, face smooth and polished like marble. The Black Widow was out in force. They came at her again and again, but she always knocked back their curveballs with ease and precision.

"Ms. Romanoff, there are some on the committee that think that you and your teammates should be prosecuted for treason instead of mouthing off on Capitol Hill," drawled one of the committeemen, leaning towards the microphone and twirling a pen through his fingers. 

Natasha smirked, one fine eyebrow raising in amusement. She straightened, dropped her eyes, the very picture of demure modesty, but then those arresting green eyes of hers flashed up and she leaned towards her microphone again.

"You aren’t going to arrest me," she said, calm and to the point. "Nor will you arrest Agent Barton."

"And what of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes? They still haven’t come out of whatever foxhole they’re hiding in," sneered another committee member, cutting her off before she could go any further. Steve’s stomach tightened as Natasha fixed her cool gaze upon him, and he was pleased to see that the man’s face visibly paled.

"If you’re trying to ask if I know where Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are, I have no idea," she said airily. This, technically, was true. He hadn’t sent her their latest postcard. "And no, neither Captain Rogers, nor Sergeant Barnes will be arrested."

"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Ms. Romanoff."

Natasha paused. She let the moment draw out. She stretched it thin. She smiled a cold, dead smile that dripped with honey. 

"Gentlemen, ‘a lie told often enough becomes the truth’ and I am well-versed in lies," she said, hands folded neatly in front of her. "I know how to spot them; I know how to craft them. I have told many lies both in aid of this country and against it. Some will hold the latter against me but some years ago I was given a chance at redemption. Except that by the time I arrived at SHIELD, their lies had long since crystallised into truths and nobody had even noticed that they were lies in the first place. 

"‘There are no absolute rules of conduct, either in peace or war. Everything depends on circumstances’. The circumstances in 2012 were as follows: Captain Rogers discovered the real truth and fought to bring that truth back into the light by any means necessary. You have been lied to and deceived - by SHIELD, by Hydra, by people in this very room, but  _ never  _ by Steven Rogers. He is many things: obstinate, driven, dedicated, loyal to the core, but a liar? No, that is not the man I know.

"As for Sergeant Barnes? He is a man who has suffered unspeakable tortures at the hands of those who have spent the last 70 years feeding you poison disguised as ambrosia. Hydra wanted to control the world, and when history needed a push, they used the fists of James Barnes to do it.

"You do not have to agree with our methods, nor with the hows and whys of what we did, but do not sit there and tell me that you would prefer to be lambs led blindly to slaughter on the promise of verdant pasture. That is not what this country was founded upon. Captain Rogers saw that in 2012 when confronted with the truth. I agreed with him then, and I agree with him now. You would be wise to do the same." 

The room was pindrop quiet. Defiant and statuesque, Natasha stared them down, fire blazing in her eyes. The committeemen shuffled in their seats, sharing apprehensive looks, faces pale and drawn as they took in all that had been thrown at their feet.

The video ended there with the men’s mumbled assertion that ‘this wasn’t over’ and that they would reconvene later. Steve stared at the phone long after the screen went blank, it reflected his face back at him, pinched and serious.

The bed dipped and Bucky snaked his arms around Steve’s shoulders, resting his chin on the top of his head. He leaned into him, his warm, solid mass a comfort.

"Your little spider has got your back better than I do," Bucky mused. Steve tossed his phone onto the bed and ducked to press his mouth to the other man’s arm. 

"She’s a damn good friend," he said, more to himself than to Bucky. 

"I’d rather have her in our corner than be fighting against her."

Steve huffed in agreement and began to stand, detangling himself before busying himself with packing his bag. Time was ticking on and they had a ferry to Ithaca to catch.

Autumn was just beginning to tint the air when they disembarked from the ferry onto Ithaca’s stunning shores. Though the sun was still warm, the air smelt different - sharper, perhaps - and the trees were just beginning to show the barest hint of yellow in their leaves. The tiny coastal villages were full of family run restaurants and houses with brightly coloured tiled roofs. 

They planned to stay for a few days to really get the full experience. Steve wanted to see Odysseus’ palace and hike the many trails that led to secluded, pebbly beaches with azure water. Bucky wanted to eat fresh seafood and sit on the ends of piers while they dangled their feet into the still warm water. And that was exactly what they did. They ate till their stomachs ached, then worked it off on the trails that laced across the island, and swam in the sea until their limbs quivered. 

However, despite the serenity of their surroundings and the bliss filled days, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha. Her words played in a constant loop.  _ . . . I have told many lies . . . obstinate, driven, dedicated, loyal to the core, but a liar? . . . a man who has suffered unspeakable tortures . . . feeding you poison disguised as ambrosia . . . _ He was drawn back to the video and Natasha’s eloquent take down, watching it in spare moments when Bucky wasn’t around to get annoyed. 

Unease had started to grow. He felt impotent. Guilt gnawed at him and he couldn’t relax as he had once done. It was like the spell they had been under was broken. The real world had started to creep back into their beautiful dream.

To distract himself, Steve bought a battered and dog-eared copy of ‘The Odyssey’ from a second hand book shop for 50 cents. He devoured it cover to cover in an afternoon, and when they made their way up to the ruins of Odysseus’ palace, he read passages aloud to Bucky like they were Romantic heroes of old. 

Bucky, for all he thought that Steve was being hideously embarrassing, bore it in good humour; he listened attentively to the readings, and smiled the fond, crinkly eyed smile that made Steve’s heart flutter and drew him in like a moth to a flame. That evening when they returned to their room he caught Bucky leafing through the book and eventually he settled by his side to read it for himself.    
  


Beneath them, as they stood high up on the hill next to Katharon Monastery, the sea stretched away till it met the sky on a lilac horizon, but the lion’s share of the view was taken up by the rolling hills of Kefalonia just across the narrow bay. Boats with jolly sails drifted across the clear waters below them, and a gentle wind rustled through the treetops.

Wonder, awe and a deep sense of longing rose from the hollows of Steve's chest and engulfed him. It was an oddly familiar feeling to him now, though not any less overwhelming. These past weeks he had seen sights he had only dreamed of. As a child they had been far off notions, experiences for those whose lives were more fortunate than his. Even when they had planned this trip long before, it hadn't truly felt like a possibility, not with all the fighting and uncertainty. It was naught but a carrot to the stick of war. Then, the train, the ice, the aliens, a life he felt wholly unprepared for caught up with him. 

He should be dead. 

And yet, here he was. Alive. 

They should both be dead. 

And yet, here they both stood. Alive. 

Steve reached for Bucky's hand. Flesh met sun-flushed metal.

"I think it’s time to go home," Steve said, softly. He kept his eyes trained on the sail boats as they made their gentle passage across the water. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed.

Bucky remained silent, but, out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw him sigh and press his lips together. He gripped his hand just that little bit tighter. 

Finally, he said, "This couldn’t last forever."

Steve dared to look at him then, studying his profile. The sun caught him just so and it looked like he was drenched in gold, but fear tinged his features and rippled off his stiffed shoulders. 

"Hey," he said, tugging him around to face him. "Hey. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I meant what I said before. If they want you, they have to go through me first."

Bucky’s jaw clenched and he cast his eyes to the ground, scuffing his toe through the dirt. After a moment, he glanced across at him with inscrutable eyes, the corners of his mouth downturned, and nodded.

It was time to burn some bridges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter next week! _what_?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! See you all next Friday. <3
> 
> I'll be down in the comments if you need me :D
> 
> Or over [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	16. Kintsugi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You’re not here. There’s no Steve Rogers in this place. There’s no joy, no laughter. I can’t feel you!” he cried. He shivered and rolled his shoulders. “I thought you had a life here.”_
> 
> _"What the fuck does that even mean?" Heat flushed through Steve and his hands clenched against his sides._
> 
> _Bucky sighed a deep, weary sigh, and looked at the photo in his hands._
> 
> _"Where did you go, Stevie?"_
> 
> || They couldn’t stay away forever. Upon their return to New York, Steve has to grapple with the reality of what his life was like after he woke up.

Steve’s apartment was cold and stale when they arrived back in Brooklyn. It had just gone four-thirty in the morning and the borough was starting to wake up but when the front door closed, it shut out all the city sounds and they were met with aching silence. With the two of them standing crowded together, Steve’s hallway suddenly felt much smaller than it used to. 

His apartment was just as he had left it two years before. The plates were still in the drying rack in the kitchen, Natasha’s cot lay, neatly made, in the corner of his living room, surrounded by boxes of evidence. Papers littered his coffee table, and the comforter of his own bed was rumpled from where he’d packed his bags. Bucky took it all in without saying anything, face unreadable, but Steve didn’t miss the way his body stiffened as they moved through each room and the deepening pinch between his eyebrows. Steve found himself fumbling for words, embarrassed, and feeling much too big for such a small space. 

"It’s not much," he said, waving a hand around his bare-walled bedroom. He gulped, waiting to hear what he would say.

Bucky stepped away from him, into the bedroom, and let his eyes roam around. There were no pictures on the wall, just long expanses of beige. The only furniture was the giant bed Steve barely slept in, a slightly rickety bedside table, and an old wardrobe he’d picked up from a thrift store. It was dinged at the corners and there was a long scratch down the side, but it had a spacious interior and a mirrored door which had been enough to entice him to buy it all those years ago. Bucky approached the bedside table and picked up the photograph that lay there: the one of him at the boxing. He held it gingerly and Steve could see his jaw clenching.

"Jesus Christ, Steve," he sighed, looking up at him. His eyes were tight, mouth open as he tried to find whatever it was he wanted to say next. 

"What?" There was more aggression in the word than he intended, but there was something in Bucky’s face, the disappointed, almost pitying look he wore, that put Steve on the defensive. He folded his arms, fingers splayed across his ribs as if he was giving himself a hug. 

"You really lived like this? This is just . . .  _ sad _ ," said Bucky, looking around the room again, mouth twisted. "Where is everything?"

" _ What _ ?" he said again, aggravated. Steve shifted from foot to foot, the weight of Bucky’s gaze rough and unbearable on his skin. "I don’t need much."

"There’s not needing much and then there’s this," Bucky insisted. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Steve who hadn’t moved from the doorway. "Did you even sleep in this bed?"

Steve pursed his lips and dropped his gaze to the hardwood floor. Lint littered the boards. He’d have to clean that later.

"No," he muttered. 

"The most colour you have in this place are those mugs in the kitchen."

"So?" Steve snapped, becoming petulant. 

What was Bucky getting at? Why did he care how he lived? This was  _ his  _ apartment and, sure, it might not be much, but it was better than nothing. He’d bought it outright using some of the ridiculous back payments he’d received from SHIELD after waking up and had filled it with second-hand furniture. What was so wrong with that?

" _ You’re not here _ . There’s no Steve Rogers in this place. There’s no joy, no laughter. I can’t  _ feel _ you!” he cried. He shivered and rolled his shoulders. “I thought you had a life here.”

"What the fuck does that even mean?" Heat flushed through Steve and his hands clenched against his sides.

Bucky sighed a deep, weary sigh, and looked at the photo in his hands.

"Where did you go, Stevie?"

"What do you want me to say? I didn’t need anything else. This was enough."

"It’s barely more than we had in 1938!"

"It’s more than most. I came back when so many others didn’t," Steve said through clenched teeth, unable to stop the bitterness creeping through.

" _ That’s _ what this is about?" Bucky sounded incredulous and he snorted. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close enough.

Steve worked his jaw as anger flared inside him.

"You don’t get to judge me. Not you. Not about this," he snarled and stalked to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Bucky anymore, but he could still feel his reproachful eyes. He had tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but hadn’t succeeded. 

"Christ, you’re such a fucking martyr, you know that? You think you’re the only one who’s suffered?"

The words were flung, venom tipped, at his back.

"Of course, I don’t. Of course, I fucking don’t. You win that hands fucking down. Don’t think I don’t know that, but it didn’t  _ feel  _ right," Steve cried, voice rising as he spun back around. "I didn’t want it - the adoration, the spectacle, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I woke up and I was this - this great symbol for  _ hope _ , of ‘the nation’s glory’, but I’m no better than all those other men who laid down their lives."

His voice shook, and he vibrated with barely contained adrenaline. Bucky glared at him.

"So you live like St Paul? The hermit in the cave?" 

"It was the only thing I could control." It came in a rush, a last desperate gasp to try and get him to understand. "I didn’t - I don’t deserve - It was  _ too much _ ."

Something broke inside him and he sunk to the floor, head in his hands. 

"I shouldn’t get to complain, not when you’re sitting there, not when you've been to hell and back." His voice was pained and barely more than a whisper. 

He wound his fingers through his hair and held it in tight fists. The tiny pricks of pain were enough to keep him grounded. The sunshine and easy smiles of the past few months felt a long way away, a distant memory in the chill of his bare apartment.

Perhaps that’s why he had clung to Natasha’s presence, had accepted her as a roommate so easily; with her there, he didn’t have to focus on how empty everything was. She had filled it up. But she wasn’t here now, and there was no hiding from the grim reality. Everything bar the bed was second hand. His couch was tiny and dilapidated and, besides, he’d spent more time sitting on the living room floor than he did on the couch anyway. The one frivolous purchase he’d made was that stupid comic book mug, and that was just because it reminded him of Bucky.

From the bed, Bucky sighed again, his anger had dissipated. 

"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to antagonise you," he murmured and Steve braved a glance in his direction. He was leaning back on his palms and glaring at the ceiling. 

"S’alright. You don’t have to apologise to me. I should be the one apologising, wallowing in self-pity like this, martyring myself like I’m the only one who hurts. It’s obscene."

"No it’s not."

"Yes, it is. I got off easy compared-"

"Steve, it’s not a goddamn competition," Bucky cut in, giving him a sharp look. Chastened, Steve dropped his eyes, squinted at his hands. "We’ve both been cut; we bleed, we hurt. What does it matter? How are we supposed to measure it on skin that doesn’t scar?"

"When did you get so wise?" Steve croaked, a faint smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

Bucky shook his head and bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"Sometimes I still barely know who I am. There are moments where it feels like I’m going to claw my own skin off because it sits too tight around these old bones," he said, still leaning back on his palms, eyes stuck in careful examination of the plaster. "The faces, the screams - theirs, mine-, the pain: it’s all there, never more than a hair’s breadth away. I tear myself apart and put myself back together again multiple times a day. I’m held together with needles and the thin hope that one day it’ll get easier."

Steve swallowed whatever protestations rose up on his tongue. They felt hollow and ineffectual.

"I don’t blame you, but I can’t carry your guilt as well as my own. It’s too heavy, and I’m scared I’ll drown," he said, frowning.

The weight of Bucky’s words hit him like an anvil, winding him. The hard lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

"Do you want to leave?" Steve asked in a hoarse whisper. His mouth was desperately dry, wrung out. Tension twisted over his shoulders and down his arms, and cut through his stomach.

"No, that’s not what I’m saying. I - I - Urgh." He flopped back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands and smothered the end of whatever he had been about to say. Silence flayed them. It brushed up against Steve with razor-sharp edges and tore at where he felt most sensitive. "I need to face the consequences of my actions and I need you to be okay with that."

The words were muffled, spoken against palms pressed flush to his mouth. They wavered and threatened to crack, breaking open whatever fortifications Bucky had built up. Steve flashed cold. Goosebumps raised the hair on his arms and trepidation seized him.

"The inquiry?"

"The inquiry, the trial, whatever they want to throw at me. It won’t bring those people back, but I don’t know how else to make it right."

With a gulp, Steve lumbered to his feet and approached the bed. Bucky lay with his metal arm thrown over his eyes but Steve could see his screwed up expression. As he drew level, Bucky held himself up on his elbows and they held eye contact for a long, drawn-out moment. 

"Whatever you need, I’ll do it." He trembled, barely able to keep it from his voice. 

"I know," Bucky sighed. "Come here."

He reached for him. Steve took his warm, flesh hand and let himself be drawn down onto the too soft mattress. Bucky adjusted them until they were both fully on the bed and he held Steve curled into his chest like he used to do when he was tiny and couldn’t keep a heat during all those long Brooklyn winters. 

"I’m not going anywhere," he murmured into his hair, pressing kisses to his forehead, and Steve shuddered at the touch. "You’re my home, Stevie."

He sagged, tension sliding from his limbs and into the mattress. Somewhere along the line, their long, even breaths gave way to a dreamless sleep and it was the most comfortable Steve had ever felt in his own bed. 

Their return began in earnest the following day. Never one to be caught on the back foot, Natasha appeared at their door and drew Steve into a tight hug the moment the door swung open.

"I missed you," she said, so low and fierce that it reddened Steve’s ears. 

She caught them up on everything to do with Silver Tongue Enquiry, the who’s who, their allies and their enemies. It was a lot but Steve felt a new sense of calm and purpose. It was just another mission. 

"Whatever happens," she said, that first morning. "We’re in this together. They might try to spin it to make us look like the bad guys but we’re in the right."

She paced back and forth across the living room, thumping her fist into the palm of her other hand.

"We don’t want to get caught up in some lengthy trial. It’ll only cause more pain than it’s worth. What we need is a story. Tell the right story and you’ll win your cause before you even begin," she continued, more to herself than to them.

It reminded Steve of her speech. In the right hands, lies and stories were the same thing really. And Natasha was a master storyteller. 

“Aren’t we halfway there already thanks to you?” he asked with a wry smile. This stopped her in her tracks and she made an ‘I suppose so’ sort of a look and grinned. 

They were given a few weeks to prepare once the summons came through. It wasn’t enough time. Though in all honesty, it wouldn’t have mattered how long they were given, it still would have felt insufficient. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some part of him had expected swift retribution upon their return home, but none had come. Their days were filled with research and preparation, and apart from the inclusion of the odd interview or press event at Natasha’s behest, it wasn’t that different from how he used to spend his days two years prior. It gave him focus. 

Except, this time, there were four people and a dog crammed into his tiny living room instead of just three. 

Steve had been glad to see Lucky again. The first time Clint had brought him around, the one-eyed Labrador had lolloped up to him with a soft whoof and given his palm a hearty lick, feet tippy tapping on the wooden floor of his hallway. 

“The thing is,” Natasha began one afternoon, fixing Bucky with an apprehensive look. “I can almost guarantee that  _ we’re  _ going to be fine.” 

She gestured between her, Steve, and Clint, who was feeding Lucky slices of pepperoni straight from the packet. Barefoot and dressed in a sharp black suit, she was leaning against Steve’s sideboard, arms and ankles crossed. The high heels she’d kicked off lay forlorn and forgotten by the door.

“We have the proof, there’s plenty of evidence to back  _ us  _ up. The whys and the hows are easy to follow,” she continued. “You on the other hand -”

“Just tell me what I need to do.”

“It’s what we all have to do,” she corrected, tucking back a piece of hair that had fallen out of her twist. “Not just you. This isn’t just your burden.”

The story, she said, was simple. The committee had to believe, to see, to  _ know  _ what Hydra had done. For so many, the parasitic organisation was abstract, something they couldn’t quite grasp. Faceless. To give them a face was to show the very  _ human _ cost of what they had done.

“I understand this is a lot. It’s overwhelming and is likely to bring up a lot of painful memories, but we’re playing for the back rows here. There’s no room for subtlety.” Natasha at least had the decency to look apologetic. 

“So you’re making me the poster boy.” Bucky sounded numb.

“For their victims, yes.”

Steve looked between them. Bucky was leaning forward on his thighs, hands hanging down between his knees and he could see the way the muscles in his back twitched. He didn’t think there was much he could say so he just edged a little closer to him on the sofa, pressing their knees together and touching a hand to his hip. Just to let him know that he was there. 

“All the evidence is out there. We just have to choose the right documentation, the kind that can’t be twisted,” Natasha said.

As if sensing the yawning sense of dread within the room, Lucky disentangled himself from Clint’s arms, trotted over to Bucky and laid his head over his knee. 

Digging his fingers into the dog’s soft fur, Bucky nodded. “Start with the Budapest files. I’ll fill in any gaps.”

"I hate this," Bucky snapped later that evening once Natasha and Clint had left for the day, and they were in the kitchen making dinner. Steve stood by the stove podding a spatula into some pasta sauce. "I wish I could just face the wolves already."

Steve started. He’d been absorbed in the task at hand, mind blissfully blank, for once.

"I know but it’s not as simple as that,” Steve sighed, frowning at the bubbling sauce, trying to find the right words. “If I had my way, I’d be down in D.C. right now daring them to come for you but you said you wanted to see this inquiry through. If we do it and do it right? Then you’re free. There’s no knife hanging over your neck anymore.”

From over his shoulder, there was a grunt. Steve rubbed the back of his neck and turned the heat off the stove. 

"I feel like a fraud,” Bucky rasped and his voice was like a lash across Steve’s cheek. “Natasha has all those politicians out there extolling my virtues to anyone who’ll listen. Hell,  _ you’re _ out there doing it too. But I’m rotten. I'm a bad person out here pretending to be good; I’m a weapon waiting to be fired."

With every word, he was becoming more agitated. Steve went to him, drawn like a moth.

"Now who’s the martyr?" He grasped Bucky’s biceps, found his skittery gaze, and offered him a small, soft smile. "For one thing, you’re not a bad person. You’re a good person who was forced to do horrific things. There’s a difference."

Bucky grimaced again, tried to extract himself from Steve’s grip but he hung on.

"It shouldn’t be that simple."

"Maybe, maybe not but it’s true," said Steve, jostling him, trying to raise a smile. It only half worked. 

Bucky looked up then, grey eyes boring into him. They flickered over his face like he was searching for something. And after a moment, he seemed to find it. He gave a small nod to himself. When Steve pulled him against his chest, Bucky slumped, arms looping around his hips, head resting against his shoulder. Steve could feel his breath tickling across his throat and the way he pressed his nose into him, breathing long and deep. 

“You’re not in this alone,” he murmured, pressing a firm kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “There’s no changing the past but you don’t have to bear the whole weight of the world on your shoulders anymore. We’ve razed everything to the ground, and now we have a chance to build something new, something better, and we have the chance to do that together."

It had taken some time for Steve to come to this realisation, but it didn’t make it any less true. He still wore his guilt - his loss, his sorrow - like a second skin, but sometimes it didn’t feel quite so constricting. The moments of clarity would catch him off guard. Colours felt extra bright, sounds sharper and clearer than ever before. The fog that so often used to cloud his mind didn’t settle with the same heavy intent anymore.

Bucky sighed, slid a hand underneath his shirt and pressed his fingers into the dimples of his lower back. “I know.” Then after a moment, he added, “We make quite the pair, don’t we?"

"Shattered to pieces and mended with gold, baby," Steve quipped, and finally, Bucky laughed. It was a husky, half-formed thing, but it raised the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck and made his heart swell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the line next week folks! Whaaat?! I'm not ready. 
> 
> Special shout out this week to [steveandbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky)/[@the-hoziest](https://the-hoziest.tumblr.com/) for talking me down from several ledges about this chapter and being the best beta/editor/fic wrangler there ever was. This fic exists because of her support tbh. <3
> 
> See you next Friday!
> 
> Until then, you'll find me down in the comments or over [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	17. Lily of the Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The committee has reached its decision."_
> 
> _Steve tensed in his seat and leaned forward in anticipation. This was it. Everything they had worked for boiled down to this moment. The time had come to see if it had all been for nothing._
> 
> || It’s been a long road but the end is here.

"The committee has reached its decision." 

Steve tensed in his seat and leaned forward in anticipation. This was it. Everything they had worked for boiled down to this moment. It was the culmination of a tiresome few months, of sleepless nights and strategic speeches and interviews. They had raised petition after petition in their favour and given rousing speeches on the steps of the courthouse on more than one occasion. The time had come to see if it had all been for nothing.

The room was packed. Press officers lined the walls, giant cameras pointing his way. Natasha sat, poised and angled on his left, Clint was on her other side, looking nervous but bedraggled, and Bucky was to Steve’s right, resplendent in a fresh, pressed dress uniform. 

"From the outset, this enquiry set out to establish three things: 1. Who was to blame for the fall of SHIELD, 2. How Hydra managed to remain undetected for so long and 3. Whether Sergeant James Barnes should face trial for crimes committed in Hydra’s name. I believe, through thorough investigation, we have found the answers."

He wasn’t wrong. Their lines of inquiry had scrubbed them raw. Hauled up over and over again, they had grilled them on everything; prickly questions launched like grenades, one after another, just so they could see the sparks fly. It had been a struggle to remain calm when the committeemen grated against him, but Steve gritted his teeth and bore it. This just was another role for him to play. Decked out in full star-spangled regalia, he was the very picture of a hero. Gone was the long hair and beard, in their place a clean face and neat, short hair. It was, as the press dubbed it, the ‘glorious return of Captain America’. 

Except, it hadn’t felt like that to Steve. The uniform had been a comfort once, something to hide behind and root for, but now it was just another hollow symbol, tainted by all that had happened. He’d had to explain New York, the impostor, his decision to go undercover as a Hydra agent, had had to watch their disbelief, and suffer brutal cross-examination. 

But he only had it half as bad as Bucky. They kept to their carefully crafted story but there had been no punches pulled for his friend. The committee came out all guns blazing. He’d had to submit himself to psych evaluations, had to go over, in excruciating detail, the contents of the Budapest files, had to recount every cruelty inflicted on him. Their line of questioning seemed designed to slice open old wounds and throw as much salt in there as possible. On one particularly horrible day, Steve had had to watch as they paraded a line of photographs of his victims’ faces in front of him. 

The night that had followed was painful. Neither of them slept, and Steve had held Bucky on their hotel room floor as waves of violent, panic tore through him. There had been nothing to do except stroke his back and whisper into his hair that, “ _Everything’s gonna be okay, Buck. I’ve got you. You’re okay_.” Over and over again, biting back his own terror, until he calmed and they were coiled into a protective huddle, Bucky’s face buried in the crook of Steve’s shoulder. 

There was no part of the entire ordeal that Steve liked. It didn’t matter how many people appeared to be on his side, or how vocal people on Twitter were, they weren’t the ones being strung up. They didn’t have to sit and watch the person they loved be hauled, unrelentingly and without a shred of mercy, over hot coals.

For the likes of Alexander Pierce and Brock Rumlow, it was never as cruel. Sitting in the same room as them had proved too much for Steve, and he had had to remove himself before his anger got the better of him. Perhaps he was biased but their questioning appeared far more genteel and didn’t have the same ferocity as his own. 

"In light of all the evidence we have considered here at this inquiry," continued the committeeman. "We have come to the following conclusions. No charges will be leveled before Captain Steven Rogers, Agent Natasha Romanoff nor Agent Clinton Barton for their roll in the fall of SHIELD."

A ripple went around the room. Steve blinked. Natasha crushed his hand in hers and she sat stock still, eyes wide. Her nails dug into his skin but he barely felt it, he could barely breathe. This had almost been a given but to hear it confirmed was a relief.

"In addition, it has been decided that all named Hydra agents and conspirators will face trial for their crimes against humanity." 

It wasn’t a ripple this time. Tense whispers whipped around the room. Steve turned a stiff head to look at Bucky. He gulped, mouth dry. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. If this was to be the end then he wanted to imprint him on his mind like this forever. He wanted to keep the fearsome curve of his jaw, the softness of his hair, and the depthless bounds of his love safe, hidden close in the confines of his heart. He wanted to keep all of it and more.

"However, after careful consideration and much discussion, we have decided that Sergeant Barnes will face no such trial and will receive a full pardon on behalf of the United States Government."

If anything more was said, Steve didn’t hear it. The world spun. A great clamour had broken out. Cameras flashed, and journalists barked questions. But they were waves crashing down on an indifferent rock because Steve only had eyes for Bucky. Like a slow dawn, his face lit up. Without thinking, with no regard for the consequences or that fact that they were in a crowded room, Steve grasped Bucky by the back of the neck and kissed him like the world was ending instead of starting anew.

That was the picture that fronted all the news stories. Steve and Bucky locked in a fierce kiss, Natasha, eyes closed, breathing a sigh of relief and still clutching Steve’s hand, forehead to forehead with Clint.

Clint later gifted it to them in a frame to celebrate.

A few weeks after the conclusion of the inquiry, they stood outside a neat suburban home. A pale blue bench sat under a bay window, and the flowerbeds were filled with immaculately kept rose bushes and thick lavender shrubs. At Steve’s side, Bucky jittered, fiddling with the hem of his shirt and smoothing his hair back. 

This had been a long time coming but they had agreed: once Bucky had his freedom, then they could meet. 

"I don’t know if I can do this," he said, eyes flickering up and down the street and looking a little green around the edges. 

Steve could see his mind working as he calculated an escape plan. Shaking his head, he took his hand.

"Yes you can. It’s going to be fine."

"What if she hates me?" He sounded horrified at the very thought and he shifted as if he was ready to bolt.

"Time to go, Buck," Steve chuckled, not even entertaining the question. "It’s rude to leave a lady waiting."

Bucky shot him a wide eyed, apprehensive look, but nodded and followed him up the garden path. The door opened before they reached it, and Rebecca Proctor stood there, eyes wet and grinning from ear to ear. Bucky drew up short as if he’d slammed into an invisible wall.

"Becca," he breathed, blinking rapidly and gaping as if he was a fish washed up on land.

"Hello Jamie, darling." Her voice quavered. "I’ve been waiting for you."

She stepped back to allow them in, and Steve had to propel Bucky forward. Becca reached for him as they neared, and pulled him into the warmest, tightest hug she could muster. Bucky broke and his shoulders shook, wracking sobs ripping through him while tears slid in silent rivers down Becca’s wisened cheeks as she held her brother for the first time in 70 years. 

They stood like that for several minutes, and Becca rubbed slow, long circles into Bucky’s back, murmuring sweet comforts in his ear. Once inside, she settled them on the sofa in her front room and plied them full of tea, lemonade, and door stop sized slices of banana bread. Bucky was perched on the very edge of the sofa, leg jangling. Steve placed a hand on the small of his back and shuffled closer, pressing their knees together. He received a strained but grateful look in return for his efforts.

The conversation stumbled and faltered before, finally, they found their way. It went around in circles. One moment, the memories of their childhood dashed, laughing, through the living room, the next, it was the war, then it was the weeks spent traversing Italy and Greece before they started the cycle anew. 

"I don’t need to hear what you’ve done," Becca said, holding up a hand and shaking her head when Bucky tried to get into the nitty gritty of the past 70 years. "I felt your pain. I read the files. I followed the inquiry. What’s done is done. It doesn’t change who you are to me."

She smiled a sad smile and her eyes glittered with more unshed tears. 

"We don’t - It’s not-" she broke off, paused and held a hand to her mouth as emotion overwhelmed her faculties. After a moment, she spoke again. "You have a new life now. Let us focus on that."

Eventually, Steve excused himself, feeling like an intruder to their reunion. He made his way to the back garden, and just as he was about to close the door, he heard Bucky gasp.

"I have nieces and nephews?"

"And grand nieces and nephews." Becca’s laugh was like childhood, like caramels guzzled on street corners out of paper bags and grass stained knees. 

Steve smiled, and let the door close with a soft snick. The garden at the back was just as neat as the one at the front. There was a kids’ sandpit next to the patio covered with a tarp, and flower beds lined the fences down to the bottom, where a low wire fence marked the bank of the brook that snaked through the neighbourhood. A swing seat was tucked away into a little nook by the bank and that’s where Steve settled himself, letting the quiet babbling of the water wash over him. 

The neighbourhood was calm. There wasn’t even the rumble of cars to disturb his meditation. He resisted the urge to flick through his phone and, instead, settled back and watched the water run and the birds flit from branch to branch. 

It had been a long few weeks. The media scrutiny hadn’t lessened since the end of the inquiry. Packs of journalists crowded the street in front of his apartment at all hours of the day and hounded him with questions, many of which he didn’t have satisfactory answers for. They wanted to know about his relationship with Bucky, whether he would retain the mantle of Captain America, if the Avengers were still a team worth supporting. 

He knew the answer to the first question. It was the easy one, the one that was written onto his soul. To call Bucky his boyfriend was reductive. They were so much more than that. He didn't have all the right words, but he knew that Bucky was as essential to him as breathing. 

The other questions were the problem. Did he want to be Captain America anymore? Did he want to be considered a part of ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ as Tony had put it? He didn’t know. He hadn’t touched his shield since giving it to Natasha in Budapest, and she’d been safeguarding it since then. It would feel awfully heavy to him now. But then, he considered, did the people want him like that anymore? Sure, between the angry voices there were a few that had only positive things to say, but was that enough? He couldn’t tell. 

Sometime later, a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. So lost in his own thoughts, he started, head snapping round to see Becca standing by his side. She wore the same crinkly eyed smile as her brother. 

"You can come back in, if you like," she said. "We’ve had our sob fest."

Steve chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. Becca's face settled into a pensive look, her thin lips pursed.

"I should really thank you," she said. "For bringing him home. I knew I could trust you to do it."

“You knew I’d find him?”

Becca chuckled and bowed her head with an apologetic look on her face. A delicate, pink blush crept across her cheeks.

“One way or another. There was no one else who could have done it,” she said simply, raising a shoulder. Steve laid a hand over her’s, his huge palm smothering her tiny fingers.

They shared a look, one heavy with meaning and many unsaid things but at its core there was an understanding. With Bucky home, she could finally put that unanswered question to bed and he would cease to be the ghost that haunted her every move. 

"Guess that psychic thing finally came in useful after all this time," he teased, trying to lighten the mood. He stood, brushing down his jeans and Becca swotted his arm but didn’t deny it.

_“I don’t want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart.”_

Gentle music crooned through the record player and served as a mellow backdrop to their dinner. Steve, Bucky, Natasha and Clint were sitting shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee around the cheap plastic, foldaway table. Lucky lay under the table, crammed between Clint’s feet and begging for scraps. From where Steve was sitting it looked like he was succeeding, with every other bite disappearing underneath the tablecloth. This time, they had managed to squeeze together but not without a lot of jostling. Between the cooking and the close press of bodies, the window was thrown wide, allowing brisk winter’s air to sweep through the stuffy, over-filled room. 

They ate, and they chatted, and they laughed. Bucky and Natasha traded barbs as was their want but they were blunt, dull tipped, and held no malintent. Clint, who, once again, had been the mastermind behind this particular ‘family dinner’ as he liked to call them, was happy to feed Lucky and back up Natasha on whatever point she was trying to make. 

“I think we should call a toast,” said Natasha, clearing her throat and grabbing at her glass. She stood, unsteady and more than a little wine drunk, she beamed, cheeks pink and eyes glossy. “You!” she accused, pointing between Steve and Bucky. “You two are drinkless. Fix that.”

They exchanged a look and Bucky shrugged.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not going to argue with her.” He did have a point. Tipsy or not, she still wore her black bracelet and, hey, Steve didn’t want to tempt fate. He poured them another drink and gestured for Natasha to continue.

“I just want to say,” she began, gulping and looking towards Steve. “That I’m glad you thawed out. I don’t think any of us could have predicted what the last few years have thrown our way, but I’m glad this is how it’s turned out.” She paused and looked around the table, a smile at the corners of her lips. “This became so much more than just a job, and I count myself lucky to call you my friend - my - my _family_. I know there aren’t many people you let get that close, so, thank you. Here’s to you, Steve.”

She raised her glass, a little watery around the edge but smiling with a very unNatasahalike softness and warmth. It pulled at Steve’s heartstrings and he felt his throat tighten. Mirroring her gesture, he took a long draft of wine to mask just how deeply the words affected him. His skin felt hot and there was a prickling under his eyes. 

“Yeah, let’s hear it for Captain America,” murmured Bucky in his ear, his grin hidden behind his wine glass. Steve snorted at the unexpected quip, which quickly turned into a cough as wine shot down the wrong pipe. 

Bucky’s hand was on his thigh, fingers flexing. He could feel the warmth of his fingers through his jeans and he dropped his own hand to tangle their fingers in his lap. The simplicity of the gesture gave Steve an immense amount of pleasure. The fact that he could do this, that he even had this in the first place, would never cease to amaze him. Somehow he got to have a second chance.

He caught Clint out of the corner of his eye.

_‘Get a room,’_ he signed, looking between them with a bored expression.

_‘Maybe later,’_ Steve signed back, a cheeky, shit-eating grin now spreading across his face. Clint just rolled his eyes and hauled Lucky onto his lap.

The rest of the night was spent in a happy daze. They laughed and threw easy arms around one another as they danced and spun around in the tiny space. Steve felt so light and warm he was sure he was going to float up out of the window and be lost to the stratosphere. Eventually, however, he slunk from the room and took refuge in the kitchen. There was an enormity to his feelings he could barely comprehend. 

For so long, he had been accustomed to the heavy weight of living this life of his, that to experience something so positive and downright _good_ felt almost unnerving. Many moons ago, Sasha Novak had asked him if he had ever thought about having a simpler life. At the time, it had seemed impossible but now . . .

“Hey, you ran away,” came a husky voice from behind him. 

Bucky leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms and ankles crossed. His hair was pulled back in a low bun but his grey eyes were framed by a few loose strands. He’d slung his red flannel around his hips so he was just in a too tight white T-shirt. In the next room, Steve could hear Natasha laughing at something.

“Just needed a breather,” he said, which wasn’t entirely untrue. He pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and downed half of it in one go.

“You look like you’re thinking,” Bucky observed, pushing off the door jam and coming to stand in front of him. He placed gentle hands against his neck, fingers pressing into his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “Talk to me.”

Steve didn’t know how to begin. So he just dove in.

"What would you say if I said I didn’t want to be Captain America anymore?"

This clearly hadn’t been what Bucky expected him to say because he dropped his hands from his neck and his brow furrowed.

"I’d say you were a fool, but that I couldn't stop you from doing what you wanted," he said, serious and slow. "Why? You thinking of giving up the shield?"

"I dunno, maybe," he said with a shrug, taking a few steps away from Bucky towards the window. People to-and-froed along the sidewalk, always in a hurry to get where they needed to be. "Does the world really need me anymore?"

Steve felt Bucky’s fingers on his wrist, tugging him round to face him. When he tried to avoid his eyes, the crook of Bucky’s finger caught him under the chin.

"Where’s this coming from?" he asked in gentle tones, his voice low and persuasive, a forlorn look on his face.

"After all I’ve done, can I really be considered any kind of role model?" Steve countered, wrinkling his nose.

"Sure you can. Do you not want to? _You_ , Steve Rogers. Or is this coming from somewhere else? Because I still think there’s a lot of good you can do."

"You do?" he looked across at him from under long lashes and tried not to grimace.

"Of course!"Bucky insisted and his wolfish grin started to spread across his face. "I’ve never met a more stubborn asshole that can somehow still rally people to his cause. You’re a leader. People follow you, look up to you. Or did you not hear what Romanoff said back there?"

As to prove the point, from the next room there was squeal, a woof, and Clint’s cackling laughter. Steve blushed, feeling warmth seep across his cheeks and down his neck.

"Whatever you chose, I’m going to support you, you know that right?" Bucky said in an undertone, becoming serious again. A shallow frown creased his brow.

In the next room Natasha and Clint were singing along to the record player and from the shuffling sounds that accompanied it, it appeared that they were dancing too. Their kitchen was quiet. But the atmosphere was no less intimate. Bucky stood close enough for him to count the freckles on his nose and see the soft brush of his lashes on his cheek as he blinked.

"I’d give it all up for you, if you asked," Steve murmured, frowning now too and fiddling with the arms of Bucky’s flannel just for something to do with his hands.

"I know,” sighed Bucky. His eyes skated over his face and he brushed a few stray hairs back from Steve’s forehead, fingers trailing down his temple to cup his cheek. “That’s why I don’t. I couldn’t ask you to do that. It wouldn’t be fair. Besides, it means too much to you."

"It does." It would be a lie to say otherwise, and Steve knew it. He turned his face to press a tender kiss to Bucky’s palm.

"You don’t have to make a decision today, tomorrow, next week, hell you can take all the time in the world you want, God knows you’ve earned that right, but whatever your decision, I’ll be there."

He sounded very sure, like he’d been thinking about this for a long time, and he was nodding his head in agreement with his own statement.

"Thank you, Buck." Steve was quiet now, reflecting on what Bucky had said and holding his hand firm against his cheek. 

"I mean it. If you choose to keep on fighting the good fight then count me in." Steve opened his mouth to protest but Bucky pressed a cool metal finger against his lips to silence him. "No, don’t try and say anything now. My mind is made up. Where you go, I follow. That’s just how it is."

The smile he gave Steve was resigned, it was full of love, it was determined. It reached his eyes with a softness that had become so familiar, he reckoned he would be able to capture it from memory now. 

"Okay, fine, I won't try and talk you out of it," he said, holding up his hands.

“No. You won’t.” 

Bucky was done with this conversation and he pulled Steve in for a slow, languid kiss that almost buckled his knees. Just a little sloppy and more than a little imprecise, their lips moved in unison, tongues sliding in a slow dance against one another. Bucky’s hand was in his hair, the other firm on his lower back. Steve leaned into him, letting him take his weight.

Bucky was right. They had time enough to come back to this conversation a thousand times over. There was no rush. A voice in the back of his head nagged about the fact that there would be journalists asking him about it every day until he gave an answer, but he pushed it away. Another day. The future was stretched out in front of them.

After a few moments spent pressed up against one another, Bucky broke their kiss with a hazy, heavy-lidded smile. He snaked both arms around Steve’s waist and slid his hands into his back pockets.

“You know, I was speaking to your spider yesterday,” he said, with a practised air of nonchalance.

"A dangerous endeavour for all involved but what was she saying?" Steve asked, wary. Naturally, he wanted them to get on, but Natasha took far too much delight in his apprehension about their budding friendship.

"Nothing bad," Bucky chuckled, digging his fingers into his ass and making him squirm in their embrace. "She just mentioned seeing some things in this catalogue she thought we might like, so I checked it out for myself, and I hate to say it, but the woman has taste.” He wrinkled his nose like he regretted saying it immediately. “What do you think about buying a new sofa, maybe some cabinets? Potentially getting the kitchen re-modelled?"

He rattled all this off, blasé and quite matter of fact, still pressed firmly against Steve. He gave him an incredulous look.

" _What_? I’m serious!" Bucky cried, this time resorting to digging his fingers into Steve’s ribs to really drive the point home. "If I’m going to live here, this place needs some sprucing. It’s depressing as fuck Stevie. I need some colour in my life."

This last part was delivered with an accusatory finger jabbed into his chest.

"How dare you. I bring all the light and colour into your life that you need." Steve retorted but he couldn't keep the dopey grin from his face.

"Ah so true, you are indeed the love and light of my life, but I'm talking about the real and tangible. We have a future now, so why not - I don’t know - start planning for it - together?"

"Is that what you want?" asked Steve, forever second-guessing despite everything

"Is it what I want?" Bucky scoffed. "Of course it’s what I fucking want. I’ve never _wanted_ anything more."

Steve looked down at him and realised that a future with Bucky was all he wanted too. And it was his for the taking. The picture bloomed before his eyes; the home they would build together, the pictures they would hang on the walls, the memories they would make, the family and friends they would host for birthdays, Thanksgivings, and Christmases. He could see it all laid out, clear as day.

Stooping, he pressed another kiss onto Bucky’s waiting lips.

“Okay, let’s do it. All of it,” he murmured and Bucky beamed at him, all lit up from the inside out.

Bucky led Steve back through to the living room where Natasha and Clint greeted them with a cheer. Steve leaned against the doorframe and watched as Bucky was pulled into their dance. His laughter drowned out his protestations and he joined in, shuffling his feet and trying to sway his hips in time with this music. Over the tops of Natasha and Clint’s heads, he shot him a pleading took that melted into more crinkly eyed smiles.

As Steve looked at them dance out of time - with Lucky curled up asleep on the sofa, paws twitching as he chased phantom rabbits - he realised that he really had found himself a home. He had found himself a family. The realisation blossomed beneath his breastbone and radiated out with glorious light. After all this time, Steve finally felt at peace. Somehow, he knew that it wouldn't matter if he chose to pick the shield back up or left it to gather dust in his closet. Either way, he had Natasha, and he had Clint, and most importantly, he had Bucky. And Bucky had him. Whatever came their way, they would face together.

And that was Steve Rogers’ truth. It rang out from his very soul, and nobody could take that away from him.

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks!
> 
> It would be all too easy for me to get really sappy right about now so I'm just going to sign off by saying the biggest thank you in the world. Thank you to everyone who's read along, left kudos and comments, and given this fic that came more than a year too late a chance. 
> 
> More adventures to come. 
> 
> Anon, dear friends.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/).


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